


Longing For Home

by teacass (Fushigi)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (or so they think), Alcohol, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Casual Sex, Dean/Cas Pinefest, Diverges after season 2, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, F/M, Ghost Sickness, Hand Jobs, Hate to Love, Human Castiel, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Off-screen homophobia, Pining, Top Castiel, mentions of suicide (case-related), mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9945824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fushigi/pseuds/teacass
Summary: Dean rarely visits the bunker. He knows Sam’s got enough people to spend time with in there, even though they’re all just a bunch of librarians. But then a hunt goes wrong, Dean breaks a leg, and is forced to stay with his brother and all his new research buddies while he recuperates. Soon it turns out it wouldn’t be half as bad if it weren’t for Sam’s constant nagging, all the boring nerd duties they put him on, and the annoyingly good-looking new guy who seems to know exactly how to get under Dean’s skin.———A story diverging after season 2 in which Sam doesn’t get stabbed and instead moves into the bunker to become a modern Man of Letters, Dean doesn’t sell his soul for him but continues to hunt, while Cas is not an angel but still pulls Dean out of hell. Not literally, though.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in love with the bunker since it first appeared on the show and I coudn't help myself when the idea came to me some half a year ago. I had so much fun writing it, even though the story kept fighting me and going in yet another direction that I'd originally planned. I hope it turned out okay!  
> Thank you so much to the Pinefest mods for organising such a fun challenge. Enormous thanks to my beta, Lauren, who was with me since I first started to write. And finally, thank you to my artist, Jay -- it was so great to meet you again in yet another challenge! I hope it won't be the last. Check out the art masterpost [HERE](http://nonexistenz.tumblr.com/post/157794702947?soc_src=mail&soc_trk=ma) (AO3 link [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9845114))!

**PROLOGUE**

_18 September 2008_

Being held captive in a dark den in the ground is definitely not Dean’s idea of a fun Thursday evening.

He struggles, but any attempt to escape from the stinking cave he’s in fails yet again. His wrists are tied together with an old scratchy rope and pulled up, his feet barely brushing the ground. The tension in his arms is getting really unpleasant.

A shadow moves on the other side of the cave and Dean shudders. He hopes it’s not his turn to be eaten by a psychotic wendigo.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 1**

_18 September 2008_

In retrospect, it could have been his fault.

He knew he shouldn’t have gone after the thing alone. He realised what had been kidnapping people less than five minutes into his conversation with the local sheriff; a quick look around among the trees only confirmed his suspicions. He called the bunker and talked with Sam, sharing the news and reporting ready for a hunt. Sam was glad he figured the case out so quickly.

“Who’re you with?” he asked.

Dean rolled his eyes even though his brother couldn’t see it. “No one. I found its lair, I’ve got flare guns and silver. I’m gonna be fine.”

“Dean, you can’t go after it alone!”

“Come on, Sam. It’s an easy hunt.”

“Call someone, Dean.” Sam was unrelentless. “Or I will.”

“I already tried,” Dean grumbled. “No one’s around. I’m going alone.”

“No, Dean. No way. Give me a minute and I’ll find you someone.”

“I don’t wanna work with that asshole Gordon _again_ , dude!”

“You’re gonna have to if no one else’s around. I’m sorry, Dean. You know the rules.”

“The rules are dumb. I’ve been hunting alone since I was twenty-two.”

“You had Dad then, Dean. And then you had me. You know you can’t go in there alone.”

Dean bit down on his lip. “Maybe you can join me, then. Or maybe you don’t remember how to hunt anymore?”

“It’s a ten-hour drive, dude. And I _do_ remember how to hunt.”

“Yeah, tell that to all the books you’ve been spending time with.”

“It’s called research, Dean, and you know we need it…”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. Listen, Sam, I gotta go. It’s gonna get dark soon and I wanna get this over with as soon as possible.”

“Dean! Don’t you dare going on your—”

Dean hung up. 

So yeah, maybe he could’ve listened to Sam.

His brother called him again an hour later, but Dean was too busy trying to pry the wendigo’s claws off his arm to answer. The monster had jumped down at him from the tree and Dean’s knees had met the forest floor before he could even think about drawing a gun. Dean fought — of course he did — but the wendigo didn’t even flinch when Dean continued to kick and punch and tear. It simply dragged him across the ground, heedless of every rock and root Dean’s body encountered on its way. Dean screamed when his leg got stuck in between the branches and the wendigo tugged brutally, the bones crunching with an unpleasant sound. He might have lost consciousness for a while at that point.

It didn’t bite or scratch him, but Dean felt barely alive by the time the wendigo towed him inside a cave and bound him to the low ceiling. It breathed heavily against his face, a stink that made Dean’s insides twist, and then stomped away.

Dean has no idea how much time has passed, but his arms are starting to ache almost unbearably from being held up. His leg is throbbing with a dull pain, but at least he’s not standing on it. There’s only one thing he can see in the darkness — it’s hanging from the ceiling a few feet away, half the size of a normal human being, unmoving, and reeking of decay. It probably used to be a person. Dean heard a scream some time ago, but it was cut off almost as soon as it started and never sounded again.

Dean is almost sure he is the only living thing in the cave.

Except for the monster.

Yeah, he definitely should’ve followed Sammy’s advice. 

He dozes off, then wakes up and sees movement on the other side of the cave. His toes curl in his boots, his body shuddering in spite of exhaustion, but nothing happens. Everything stays still and silent around him for another long, long moment.

He comes round again with a start when something touches his hands.

“No,” he stutters and struggles against the touch. He’s not going down without a fight. 

“Shh,” a voice whispers.

Dean’s eyelids are heavy when he lifts them, startled. There’s someone in front of him — someone, not some _thing_ — and their hands are hot against Dean’s skin where they carefully untie the rope.

“Wha—”

“Please, Dean, stay quiet,” the voice murmurs and then the rope snaps and Dean is falling down.

Except where he slumps against the hard line of someone’s body, their arms coming up to support him. Dean whimpers, his leg burning, his shoulders screaming with pain, and someone shushes him again.

“Can you walk?”

Dean grunts an affirmative, tries to take a step, a strong arm still encircling his waist. His knees buckle under him, then straighten up again while his leg continues to throb painfully.

“I can do it,” Dean groans. The person beside him doesn’t answer.

They hear a roar. Dean’s body stiffens in fear and then he’s being seated down on the ground, a wet wall behind his back and a heavy hand on his aching shoulder.

“Don’t move.”

Dean tries to protest, but the person is gone a few seconds later. The monster cries out again and Dean hears quick footsteps running away from him and towards the sounds the wendigo is making.

He takes a deep breath, pulls out a silver knife tucked away in the inside pocket of his jacket, and slowly stands up.

The world isn’t blurring and swaying any longer, which is probably a good sign. He grits his teeth and tries not to rest too much on his leg as he sinks into the darkness. He’s a freakin’ hunter. He will hunt the bitch that strung him up even if it kills him.

Ten seconds later it turns out he won’t have to, after all, because the wendigo goes up in flames not twenty feet away from him. Dean catches sight of a man standing on the other side of the cave, a gun in his outstretched hands. 

The wendigo howls and stumbles back. Dean has to step away hastily to avoid the fiery thing crashing into him, but he trips, falls down, and blacks out.

***

Dean’s whole body jerks and he opens his eyes to see dirty beige upholstery and a half-open car window. It’s dark outside and the car is moving.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asks as his head whips around towards the front seat.

There is a strange man behind the wheel, his hair dark and unkempt and his profile somber. Dean sits up slowly. He hisses when he feels the pain in his leg which, he notices, is wrapped in a clean piece of cloth and supported with several flat branches. He lifts a hand to his head when he feels dull thudding behind his eyes. 

The man looks away from the road and turns to glance at him.

“Hello, Dean. How are you feeling?” he asks. Now that he’s not whispering, Dean notices how deep his voice is. 

“Uhhh… hard to say. Where are we?”

“In my car.”

Dean glares at the back of the man’s head. “Yeah, no shit. Where’s my car?”

“Oh. I don’t know. Probably where you left it.”

Dean shuffles on the backseat, gritting his teeth while his leg continues to throb. He hopes it’s not broken. He puts his hands on the leather in front of him. His head keeps pounding, but he clearly remembers the wendigo, the flames, and the outline of the man that helped him. That’s why his next words are, “Sam sent you, didn’t he?”

The man throws him another glance over his shoulder. “He called me, knowing I was nearby, and asked for my help. Speaking of Sam,” he says and swerves the car gently, stopping on the side of the road, “we should call him.”

Dean nods, pats his pockets, and cringes. “I think I’ve lost my phone.”

“Here, use mine.” The man pushes a phone into Dean’s hands. It’s already dialling Sam’s number and for a second Dean eyes the picture visible on the small screen — Sam smiling at the camera, a book in his hands — then holds it up to his ear without looking at the man.

“Castiel?” 

Dean frowns, hearing his brother’s voice. Even though it’s clearly a middle of the night, Sam sounds very much awake. “Sam? It’s Dean.”

“Oh my God, Dean. Are you alright?” Sam yells in his ear and Dean pulls the phone away, his head pulsing. He thinks he can hear the man in the front seat chuckling.

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean grunts. “I’m fine, but you gotta stop screaming.”

“Sorry, sorry. What happened? Man, I told you not to—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. He can feel the man’s eyes on him but he stubbornly doesn’t look up. “I know. But I’m alive.”

“It was so fucking irresponsible,” Sam says harshly and Dean winces. Sam is pissed.

“I _know_ ,” Dean hisses. “Are you gonna brag about it?”

His brother is silent for a moment, and Dean risks a glance at the man. His eyes are glued to Dean’s face and Dean quickly looks away again.

“Is Castiel with you?” Sam asks.

Dean licks his lips, then looks up. The man sends him a small smile.

“I… guess? Are you Castiel?” Dean asks him, phone still pressed against his ear. He can hear Sam snort but ignores him.

“Yes,” the man says. He seems friendly enough, so Dean nods at him.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Dean says to Sam. “I think we’re in his car.”

“You _think_?”

“I kinda blacked out.”

“What? What happened there, Dean?”

Dean grimaces when Sam’s voice rises again, but before he can protest or explain, gentle fingers pluck the phone out of his hand. He looks up to see Castiel squinting at him.

“I can talk to him,” he says, voice quiet and soothing. 

Dean could honestly kiss him right now.

“Thanks, man,” he breathes, puts his hand over his eyes, and falls back against the seat. For a moment, he listens to one side of the conversation, but then he slips into lethargy that leaves him with a throbbing leg, a blunt ache in his head, and Castiel’s hushed voice.

***

Castiel stops talking just a moment later and starts the engine, so Dean forces himself to open his eyes and sit back again.

“So,” he starts, voice a bit raspy. He clears his throat. “You a hunter?”

Castiel chuckles under his breath. “Far from it. I’m a Man of Letters.”

“Really? You live in the bunker?” Dean leans forward in the seat, curiosity taking over his pain. “I’ve never seen you there.”

The bunker houses a lot of people, but Dean is fairly certain he wouldn’t miss a face like Castiel’s. Not with that hair.

“I do, yes,” Castiel says. His eyes stay on the road, but Dean can see one of his cheeks lifting in a soft smile. “I just moved in recently, though. That’s probably why we haven’t had the pleasure of being introduced yet.”

“Oh.” Dean rests his head on the back of the passenger seat. “I guess I haven’t visited in a while, so that actually makes sense.”

“Your brother says you’ve been hunting a lot,” Castiel prompts.

Dean lets his eyes slide closed. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

Castiel glances at him, but doesn’t comment. 

“Anyway.” Dean straightens up. “You never said where we’re going.”

“You never asked.” Castiel’s hands brush gently over the steering wheel when he swerves the car towards a narrow road that runs at an angle to the main street. Their surroundings are swallowed by the darkness, but Dean can see a long building with a row of pale doors when the car’s lights swipe over it.

“A motel?” 

Castiel hums, parks, and shuts the engine. “It’s really late and you need to rest.”

“But—”

“I think we can go back to Lebanon tomorrow, if you’re up for it by morning.”

“Uhh, but what about my car? And my leg?” Dean lifts a brow at him.

Castiel nods. “You’re right. We will need to visit a hospital before going back. Do you think you’ll be alright for the night or—”

“Hey! I asked, _what about my car?_ ” Dean repeats angrily.

“Your car is going to be fine.” Castiel pins him with a hard gaze.

“Yeah, no way. I’m not leaving her here. You gotta go fetch her and then we can go back,” Dean says stubbornly.

“You can’t drive, Dean. I’m quite certain your leg is broken. You’re _not going to be able_ to drive.”

“I won’t.” Dean shrugs, glares at his leg. “You will. Consider it a compliment, I usually don’t let strangers drive my baby.”

“I’m not going to leave _my_ car here, either,” Castiel says, “if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Why? It’s a crappy car, anyway.”

Dean knows he’s being childish and rude and stubborn, but his head is pounding and his leg is sending painful impulses through his entire body and _he’s exhausted_. 

It turns out Castiel is having none of his bullshit, though.

“Get out of the car,” he says, voice cold. “We’re staying here for the night so you can rest and then we’re taking my car and going back to the bunker.”

“But—”

“ _Out_ ,” Castiel bites and leaves the car.

Dean rolls his eyes and clambers out of the car, careful with his leg. He doesn’t want to admit it, of course, but he knows Castiel is right. He also has a feeling there’s no point arguing with him — he may basically be a librarian with his nose buried in books, but he also saved his ass, killed the monster, and drove him here to safety.

He also looks a bit scary, if Dean’s being completely honest with himself. The sharp lines of his face seem more prominent when he glares, the bow of his lips pulled tight, eyes glinting.

Okay. He looks scary and kind of hot.

Dean huffs again, at himself this time, and limps towards the motel, Castiel following closely behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 2**

_19 September 2008_

Sam Winchester is rarely bored.

There is honestly so _much_ to do around the bunker — he’s been living here for over a year already and he still hasn’t discovered even half of its secrets. He used to bug his dad a lot to tell him about the bunker and the secret society Dad and grandfather Henry had belonged to, but Dad never shared too much with him. Henry Winchester had died before Sam was born, and soon enough the Men of Letters had stopped functioning altogether, with no one there to carry out their legacy. John had met Mary and started a family of his own, leaving the life and moving to Lawrence. Dean was never really interested in the bunker, more willing to go into the hunting business with Dad after Mom’s death, but Sam longed to see it one day.

The day came not long after they managed to kill the Yellow-Eyed Demon and prevented the gates of hell from opening. Everyone was tired and in a serious need of some time-off, so Sam unearthed the bunker’s key from Dad’s old stuff, told Dean he was welcome to come too, and then drove up to Lebanon to finally discover the secret building.

At first, he allowed himself to relax and recover. The bunker was empty and Sam had the privilege of choosing his own bedroom.

As weeks went by, the word about the Men of Letters’ base being used again started to get around. Sam dug through the piles upon piles of old archives and contacted people whose ancestors used to reside in the bunker a few decades ago. Not everyone was interested, obviously — some people had no idea what the society even was, some wanted to run away from it as far as possible. But a few people actually got excited.

The first person to knock at the door was a short red-headed woman, Charlie. Sam wasn’t sure what to expect from her young age and nerdy t-shirts, but it quickly turned out Charlie was even more eager to get the society of her father and grandfather up and running again than him. Her parents were dead and she grew up out of the life, but she had always been curious about the whole thing and couldn’t wait to get started.

Soon, the bunker started to fill with people. Most of them were legacies, just like Sam and Charlie, some more experienced with the whole idea of the supernatural, some less. There were also a few hunters who got tired of the business and dreamed about a kind of retirement that wouldn’t make them too guilty about the safety of the civilians. Sam understood them all too well; after all, he had spent most of his childhood and the last two years of his life saving people and hunting things, just like his dad had taught him. But now that his mom’s killer was dead and his father’s quest for revenge was satisfied, he couldn’t see too much sense in living the uncomfortable and dangerous life of a hunter. Not if there was something greater here, something much more alluring. 

Dean couldn’t understand him at first. He shook his head, disappointed and heartbroken, and talked about ‘things that went bump in the night and killed people’. 

“It’s our responsibility, Sam,” he said.

Sam didn’t agree with him. Yes, saving people was important, but it wouldn’t be possible without research. That’s why the two groups had existed in the first place — the Men of Letters stored everything they could find about the supernatural, which in turn helped hunters to do their job. It was simple, really.

And it wasn’t like Sam never wanted to hunt again. He said so much to Dean, even joined every second hunt they found. Dean continued to be grumpy, at least at first, but it got better with time.

Now, a year and four months after Sam moved into the bunker, Dean is almost as in love with the place as Sam is, if not more. He doesn’t live here, not officially, but he’s got his own room, with closets half filled with clothes and weapons, and he visits at least every other month. He’s friends with most of the people living here, too. He still gets grumpy about Sam not hunting and continues to bug him about taking cases with him, though. Sam is actually grateful for that; there are days that he feels that restless itch right beneath his skin, an itch to get into the car, drive for miles, search for clues, and _hunt_. It’s all he knew when he was a kid and forgetting it completely would be impossible, so he doesn’t really fight it.

Sam is really happy with how things function nowadays. He loves the sense of cooperation between them and the hunters. The bunker is filled with knowledge that doesn’t seem to end and the information they are able to find among the old books usually turns out to be even more effective than any old hunters’ lore. Looking for cases and assigning them to hunters all around the country is also easier done from the base. Sam likes to think the old rivalry between the groups is being slowly eliminated. He definitely doesn’t approve of anyone — neither a hunter nor a Man of Letters — trying to trivialise the other group’s job and send any narrow-minded comments against each other. The Men of Letters and the hunters are the brains and the brawn of the entire operation and one wouldn’t be able to exist without the other, or at least not in such an effective way.

Sam never knew his grandfather, Henry Winchester, who was a Man of Letters too. His dad, John Winchester, despite knowing about the organisation, couldn’t live without getting revenge on the thing that killed his wife and chose to ignore the legacy and got himself and his sons into the hunting business. Sam doesn’t regret it all that much — hunting has brought him closer to his older brother again and he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. He misses college sometimes, he misses Jessica, he misses his mom and his dad and the apple pie life he never knew. 

But living here, in the bunker? It’s probably the closest to happiness he has ever been since leaving Stanford in search of the woman in white that night almost three years ago.

***

“You’re never gonna believe what I’ve just found,” Charlie announces, stepping into the kitchen with a huge book in her arms.

Sam and Kevin look up from their plates of Ellen’s spaghetti. Hannah, busy with the dishes, glances over her shoulder.

“What,” Kevin asks with his mouth full.

“I laughed my ass off,” Charlie giggles. “It’s a photo album, a really, _really_ old photo album, actually…”

Sam grabs the book as soon as she’s within reach, puts it on the table, and opens it eagerly.

“Don’t get the sauce on it!” Charlie warns. 

“Oh my God,” Kevin snorts, seeing the first pages. They’re full of old photos of what appear to be the old residents of the bunker, complete with thick glasses (or monocles), sweater vests, and bow ties. They crowd around the table, examining page after page. The album doesn’t seem to be anything official — there are a lot of goofy pictures, some of them blurry, with men caught by surprise in the middle of yawning or chewing. Whoever owned the camera that took those photos seems to have had a lot of time on their hands, as well as lots and lots of fun sneaking around the bunker and catching people off guard.

They’re giggling about one picture — with a man dressed in something that looks like a tent, with a strange, enormous hat on his head and weird markings on his grumpy face — when Sam hears footsteps and voices coming from the war room. They all pause and look up in time to see Dean enter the kitchen, his right leg in a huge white cast.

“Dean!” Charlie screeches and lunges towards him. Dean wobbles but hugs her back carefully. “What happened?”

“Uhh. Monster broke my leg?”

Sam stands up, too, and crosses the room to stand beside them. Dean glances at him and smiles. Sam punches him in the arm.

“Ouch! What the hell, Sam?!” Dean groans and glares at him.

Sam answers with a similar look. “You know what.”

“Hey! I’m fine, okay? No need to get all violent.”

Charlie stabs Dean in the chest with her finger. “You’re _fine_? Your leg is broken! You could’ve gotten killed, you dummy. What were you thinking, going there alone?”

“Alright, alright, you know what? It’s getting boring,” Dean says and rolls his eyes. “I’m sick of hearing that.”

“You know how fast wendigos are,” Kevin mumbles from where he’s still sitting at the table. 

“And how strong,” Charlie adds. “Honestly, Dean, do you have a death wish or what?”

Sam keeps his eyes on Dean, who grimaces and looks away without answering. Something uneasy twists Sam’s insides, but he doesn’t say anything.

Yet.

Castiel chooses this moment to appear in the kitchen. He stands beside Dean, glares at him, and hands him a pair of crutches. Dean glares back but accepts them.

“You two finally met!” Charlie says. “High time. Honestly, Dean, when was the last time you visited?”

“I’ve been busy,” Dean grumbles. “Unlike you, I don’t spend all days reading. I actually _kill_ things, you know.”

Sam sends him an annoyed look. “Don’t be a dick, Dean.” He turns towards Castiel and smiles. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sam.” Castiel smiles back. “I’m happy I could help. And I’m very glad I could finally meet your brother.”

“Yeah, about that,” Dean says. “Thanks for babbling to Cas here about me while I had no idea he even existed.”

“You weren’t here,” Sam says and shrugs. “I never got the chance.”

“Still.” Dean glares some more.

Sam glances at Castiel. “I think he’s tired, don’t you?”

“I think he barely slept. His leg kept him up in the motel, we drove over to the hospital first thing in the morning, and then we spent ten hours in the car.”

“And Baby’s still out there,” Dean grumbles. “I need someone to go there and pick her up, like, _right now_.”

“It’s just a car, Dean,” Castiel says, turning to him with a tired expression. Sam thinks it’s not the first time he has said that. “It’ll be fine.”

“I told you, it’s not an _it_ ,” Dean bites back. “Show some respect, man.”

“I’ll find someone,” Sam says quickly, seeing the hard lines on both his brother’s and his friend’s faces. “Don’t worry about it.”

“ _Don’t wor—_ Yeah, right. Easy for you to say,” Dean mutters.

Sam sighs, counts to ten. It doesn’t help. “Dean, stop being a jerk and go sleep it off. You’re being unreasonable.”

“Your face is unreasonable.”

“I’ll walk him to his room,” Castiel offers, grabs Dean’s shoulder, and all but drags him towards the door. Dean tries protesting, but Castiel’s grip seems strong.

Sam chuckles at them.

“Night, Dean!” Charlie calls good-naturedly. Then she turns to Sam. “Your brother can be such a drama queen sometimes.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Sam says with a grin.

Castiel comes back to the kitchen not ten minutes later, a focused expression on his usually stoic face. Sam saddles up to him and claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sorry my brother’s such a dick. He gets pissy when he feels vulnerable,” he says.

Castiel sends him an amused look. “It’s okay, Sam. It’s nothing I can’t deal with.”

Sam snorts a laugh and, when Castiel sits down at the table beside Kevin and Charlie, he points to the coffee machine in a silent question. Castiel nods eagerly.

“I’m glad. I mean, he’s usually much kinder, you know. Still likes to bitch about things, but he’s an okay guy.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says with a shrug. “I quite like him.”

Sam notices the look Charlie is sending him and chuckles again. “Maybe you’re right. Still, give him a day or two to deal with everything.”

“Man, he’s gonna be unbearable while he’s here,” Charlie groans. “Don’t get me wrong, I love him, but you don’t want to meet him when he’s in a mood,” she explains to Castiel. 

“In a mood?”

“That leg’s gonna keep him here immobilised for the next few weeks, probably,” Kevin offers.

Charlie groans again. “Oh my God. We’re all gonna die.”

Castiel shrugs again and Sam catches a curious glint in his eyes, but doesn’t comment on it.

“So what did you even talk about for 10 hours?” he asks instead, putting a cup of fresh coffee in front of Castiel.

“Not much,” the man responds after taking a big sip. “He mostly tried to sleep or pretended to be asleep.”

“Sounds like him,” Charlie giggles.

“He asked me some questions about my family,” Castiel adds casually. “I think he wanted to discover who he’s dealing with without actually engaging in a normal conversation.”

“Oh man,” Sam says, chuckling. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to feel sorry for,” Castiel says with a pleased lilt to his voice. “I was perfectly capable of rebutting any question that I deemed too personal or impolite.”

They burst out laughing. Charlie nudges Castiel in his ribs and says, “I honestly can’t wait to see you two interact. It’s going to be so much fun!”

Castiel sips his coffee with a small smirk playing on his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 3**

_20-27 September 2008_

Dean is trying to reach the highest shelf when Castiel comes into the kitchen.

“Hello, Dean,” he says. It’s friendly enough, he assumes.

The way Dean curses, almost jumps, and sends his crutches to the floor suggests otherwise. He also turns away, slow because of the cast on his leg, and glares at Castiel from across the kitchen.

“Wear a freakin’ bell, dude,” he grunts. 

Castiel ignores him in favour of pouring himself a cup of coffee. He hears Dean rummaging through the cabinet again and muttering something under his breath. He turns to look at him when Dean curses out loud again.

“Do you need some help?” 

Dean slams the cabinet door with an angry pout. “No.”

“Clearly.” Castiel walks over to him, noticing the way Dean straightens up and moves back from him. Castiel opens the cabinet and peers inside. “Do you need the cereal box?”

“No,” Dean says.

“I can’t reach it, either,” Castiel says, ignoring him. “Let me get a chair.”

“I said I don’t need help.” Dean sounds offended.

“But I don’t mind.” Castiel starts dragging the nearest stool towards the cabinet. Dean opens his mouth, looking as if he wants to deny yet again, but then closes it with a frown and crosses his arms over his chest. Castiel hops onto the stool and reaches for the cereal box with ease. 

“Thanks,” Dean mutters when Castiel hands him the box. 

“You’re welcome, Dean.” Castiel gets down to the floor, then bends to retrieve Dean’s crutches. When he gives them to him with a polite smile, Dean’s face goes pink and his green eyes turn stormy. 

Castiel watches Dean stuff the box under his arm and hobble out of the kitchen, partly confused and partly charmed by the air of frustration surrounding Dean.

***

Saturday turns out to be a sunny and warm day, so Castiel spends most of it outside, tending to the sad attempt at a garden he’s been trying to establish on the patch of dirt behind the inactive power plant. The ground is uneven and hard and the string he’s tied around the small sticks to create some kind of a fence keeps getting overturned by wind or wild animals, he’s not sure. He’s not growing anything yet because the soil is still not ready, but he really hopes it will be one day. 

He goes back to the bunker late in the afternoon when his arm muscles start screaming at him and his empty stomach grumbles unhappily. 

Ellen and Pamela are in the kitchen, drinking coffee and munching on the cookies displayed on a plate in the middle of the table. They spend a moment talking about gardening — Ellen gives him some valuable advice about fertilising the soil and Pamela suggests buying a mini-greenhouse — and then Castiel washes his dirty hands and starts preparing himself a sandwich.

“Hey, guys!” 

When Castiel glances over his shoulder, he sees Dean entering the kitchen. He notices Castiel in the exact same moment and his smile falters a little.

“Dean!” Pamela cheers. “Come join us. We’ve got cookies.”

Dean chuckles, hobbles over to the table, and sits down carefully. Castiel turns away and goes back to his sandwich. 

“I could never say no to you, Pam,” Dean says flirtatiously. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I clearly remember that one time—”

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Ellen asks loudly.

Pamela and Dean chuckle and then Dean ventures into a long complaint about the itchiness of his leg and how he can’t enjoy showers, can’t walk, can’t _hunt_ …

Castiel places his sandwich on a plate, pours himself a coffee, and sits down at the table. Dean looks at him and stops talking in the middle of the sentence.

“You can continue,” Castiel says after taking one bite of his sandwich and noticing Dean stays silent. “That was quite an engaging monologue about the hardships of your life.”

Dean makes a face at him, then turns towards Ellen. “How’s Jo doing, anyway?”

Ellen seems surprised but doesn’t comment on the change of subject and starts talking about her daughter currently hunting down a werewolf somewhere down in Louisiana. Castiel meets Pamela’s eyes and shrugs, unperturbed. 

Apparently, Dean’s still in one of his _moods_. Castiel doesn’t mind.

***

He starts minding on Monday.

It’s his turn to make dinner — they keep a schedule, similar to the one with grocery shopping and cleaning duty. Almost everyone is in the bunker and, apart from Dean, there are no other hunter guests which means cooking for ten people.

Castiel decides on chicken wings with a potato salad. He isn’t a great cook, but everyone always seems to enjoy his chicken-frying abilities; the potato salad sounds easy enough, too. He tosses the wings with oil and spices and bakes them in the oven while he prepares the salad, a simple recipe open on his cellphone. The Internet says the salad should cool down in the refrigerator for a while before serving, but the chicken wings are ready, so he ignores the advice and calls for dinner.

The library is a good room not only when it comes to their weekly meetings and research, but also for eating together. Castiel serves everything across all three tables and takes his place beside his siblings, Hannah and Gadreel.

After all of thirty seconds of silent chewing, someone splutters.

“What the hell is that,” Dean says from where he’s sitting by the last table with Sam and Charlie. 

Castiel lifts his eyes to him. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Dean raises a hand with a spoon full of potato salad. The salad drops back into the bowl with a loud wet sound. “Why is it so wet?”

“Because of the dressing,” Castiel says.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Dean sniffs suspiciously at the salad.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam warns.

“What? I’m just asking. This salad is swimming in all that mayo.”

Castiel eyes the bowl situated on their own table. “You can leave the dressing out and just eat the potatoes,” he says defensively.

Dean doesn’t answer. For a moment, it’s quiet in the library. Castiel doesn’t eat, just looks across the room and watches as Dean tries some of the salad, then grimaces, and sits back.

“What now,” Castiel asks dryly.

“Did you even add salt to those potatoes,” Dean grumbles.

Something twists Castiel’s insides. He can’t remember adding salt. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. 

“Dean, shut up already,” Sam seethes at his brother.

“What? He _doesn’t know_ , Sam.”

“Just eat,” Kevin mutters.

“Try the chicken!” Charlie chirps, obviously overeager.

Castiel stands up. “Do you all really think it’s that bad?” he asks, looking around.

“No, Cas,” Sam says. “Dean is just being a jerk.”

“Yeah, don’t worry!”

“I don’t really add salt to my potatoes, anyway…”

Castiel plops down on his chair, defeated. Everyone shuts up and doesn’t even look at him.

Everyone except Dean.

“Dude, you can’t cook, can you,” he says. His voice is flat, not mocking but not really nice, either.

“I’m trying,” Castiel says and looks down at his lap. “No one has ever said anything.”

“Yeah, because they’re idiots,” Dean says. “They’ve probably been ordering pizzas when you’re not around.”

“Oh.” Castiel stands up again and reaches for the bowl of salad on his table. “I see.”

“We’re sorry,” Hannah murmurs, looking at him pleadingly.

“Yeah, man.” Sam sounds nearly devastated. “You just always seem so eager to cook…”

“Honey, what recipes are you using?” Ellen asks, concerned. “We gave you that cookbook for a reason.”

“It’s okay.” Castiel starts gathering the plates full of untouched food, but after a moment, he runs out of hands to balance them. People stand up and try to help him carry everything back to the kitchen, apologising and patting his back every now and then. Finally, Castiel lets them do everything and just sits down at the kitchen table, frustrated and embarrassed.

That’s how Dean finds him a few minutes later.

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel lifts his gaze at his voice and the nickname. Dean doesn’t really talk to him all that much, but when he does, he keeps using that nickname. Castiel decides he quite likes it.

“You okay, man?”

Castiel shrugs. “I feel stupid. They should have told me.”

“Yeah, they should’ve. I would kill them all if I were you.” 

Dean sits down on the other side of the table, his leg outstretched. Castiel shrugs again.

“Hey, uhh. I’m sorry for being a jackass about that salad,” Dean says after a while. He sounds uncertain.

Castiel sighs. “You just said what everyone else was thinking.”

“Yeah, well. Still.” Dean squirms in his seat and doesn’t seem to be able to look Castiel in the eye. “So, I’ve been thinking…” He pauses, glances at Castiel, and looks away again. 

“Yes?” Castiel prompts.

“I could show you a few tricks, if you want,” Dean says finally. His ears are red. “I’m stuck here anyway and I’d finally have something to do.”

A pleasant feeling uncoils in Castiel’s stomach, but he keeps the smile off his face for now. “You’re just doing this because you don’t want to participate in research.”

Dean looks at him then and grins. “Aww, Cas, you’ve seen right through my clever plan.”

“It wasn’t that difficult.” Castiel doesn’t say he can’t think of any other reason Dean could be doing this since obviously it’s not to spend more time together. Dean has been avoiding him since they arrived to the bunker.

“Okay, then.” Dean clasps his hands. “We’ll relieve the others from the kitchen duty for a few days. I’m sure they’ll be happy I’m gonna cook for them. Everyone loves my cooking.”

“How do you even know how to cook?” Castiel asks even as Dean stands up and walks slowly towards the door, a clear indication that the conversation is over for now. “You’re a hunter. I can’t think of many opportunities for you to cook.”

Dean’s face darkens just for a split of second, but then he recovers and throws a quick grin at Castiel over his shoulder. “I’m just naturally gifted. You’ll see.”

And with that, he leaves Castiel in the kitchen with all his inedible food.

***

“Pass me the tomatoes, Cas.”

Watching Dean slice up the vegetables and expertly flip the meat while balancing on one healthy leg, Castiel decides Dean is, indeed, naturally gifted. It’s quite hypnotising, too, if he’s being completely honest with himself. Dean is showing off, probably, presenting Castiel his chopping skills and complicated seasoning mixtures and trying to prove Castiel is the worst cook that has ever stepped into that kitchen. Castiel, for his part, mostly watches and tries to remember as much as he can, but Dean’s smirk is slightly distracting.

“I guess you could cut the buns in half,” Dean says mercifully.

Castiel sends him a look.

“What,” Dean says with another silly grin.

“I would have been more than capable of doing a lot of things you did today,” Castiel says with an air of indignation. “But thank you for giving me a chance to prepare _the buns_.”

Dean snorts a laugh and turns away from him, but doesn’t respond.

Strangely enough, Castiel can feel the corners of his lips turning up, as well. 

Everyone showers them with praise during dinner and neither Dean nor Castiel explain Dean has basically prepared the burgers on his own. A few people ask for seconds and Dean simply shakes his head, another smirk on his face. 

“I can’t spoil you with my food,” he explains, then turns to Castiel and winks. “Wait for tomorrow, we’re making burritos.”

“We are?” Castiel asks, Dean’s wink replaying on a loop in his head. 

“Yup. They’re spectacular.”

“I like burritos,” Castiel says happily. “I like burgers, too. Especially those burgers.” He points at his empty plate.

“Told ya I’m good at it,” Dean says, standing up and gathering both his and Castiel’s plate. Only then does Castiel notice everyone has already left the library with their dishes. 

“Did you learn how to cook on the road?” Castiel asks, following Dean into the kitchen. “Or here?”

“Um. No.” Dean doesn’t turn to him, busy with the dishes at the sink. “Neither.”

His back seems stiffer than a moment ago, so Castiel doesn’t push. There’s something about this man — something deeper than his leather jacket and his jean-clad legs and his smirks and freckles — but Castiel isn’t sure it’s his place to dwell. At least not yet.

“What about you?” Dean asks when Castiel stays quiet. “They never taught you how to cook in your previous bunker?” he jokes.

“You know I used to live with my family,” Castiel reminds him. He didn’t tell Dean much when they were driving back to the bunker, but he shared a few harmless details, just to stifle his curiosity. ‘Living with the family’ seemed safe enough.

“Yeah, exactly.” Dean glances at him over his shoulder. He’s up to the elbows in the foam, so Castiel decides to grab a rag and help him dry the dishes. “Your family didn’t cook?”

Dean’s face is open and curious, so different from the way it looked during their ten-hour drive from Minnesota. He looks well-rested and friendly and _so young_. Castiel feels himself breathing out softly and surrendering. Dean didn’t get much out of him that night, but they barely knew each other then; it’s nice to believe they’re not enemies anymore.

“We had a house in Pontiac, Illinois,” Castiel says, careful. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, visibly surprised at Castiel’s willingness to talk, but he looks interested. “It was a big house, almost a mansion. Bigger than this bunker, actually.”

Dean tilts his head curiously. “I bet you didn’t have a shooting range, though.”

“No.” Castiel smiles. “Nor this big a library. It was a family house, transferred from generation to generation.”

“All Men of Letters?” Dean’s eyes widen.

Castiel swallows, then nods. “Yes, we were all legacies. There were a lot of us, not just siblings, but also uncles and cousins and, well, third cousins. It used to get really crowded during the meetings.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Dean comments.

“I was used to it.” Castiel shrugs, even though Dean is right. It’s one of the many reasons Castiel likes the bunker so much: it’s spacious, but barely inhabited. 

“So,” Dean prompts after a moment. Castiel realises he’s gone quiet, reminiscing the noisy halls of his old house. “Big family business, but no cooking?”

“Everyone was always busy. My father was often away...” Castiel’s voice drops down a notch, “And then he disappeared and suddenly everyone… Well. Everyone wanted to be in charge. That’s when we left, Hannah, Gadreel, and me.”

Dean stops washing and leans against the sink. “Your father… disappeared? What do you mean?”

“I mean he disappeared,” Castiel repeats, steel slipping into his voice. “One time he left and never came back. Some members of my family thought it was a perfect excuse to, how do I put it nicely? To revolutionise. They couldn’t agree on one version, kept fighting and tearing everything apart. It was hell.”

Dean makes a sympathetic face. “Sounds terrible. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Castiel shrugs again. He schools his features, trying not to show Dean that it was not okay, and it’s not really okay now, either. “A lot of us left then. The rest… I’m not sure what happened,” he murmurs.

“Well, they sounded like dicks, so who cares,” Dean says easily and Castiel can’t resist a huff of dry laughter. Dean grins at him and turns back to the sink. “So why are you here? Didn’t you want to escape the life?”

“No.” Castiel frowns. “I wanted to escape my chaotic family and their faction. I am still a Man of Letters.”

“Right. A legacy.”

“Yes, a legacy. As are you, and Sam, and all the others.”

“I’m not a legacy,” Dean huffs. “I’m a hunter, not a _librarian_.”

“Your father was a Man of Letters,” Castiel says, ignoring the jibe. “So was his father before him. You’re Sam’s brother, therefore you’re a legacy. You can’t deny it.”

Dean surprises him then by noisily putting the clean plate away and cutting off the water. Castiel takes a step back when Dean turns to point an angry finger at him.

“My dad was a _hunter_. All his life, actually. He didn’t want any part of this… this bunker business. He raised us to be hunters and to save lives and _this_ is what I’m doing.”

Castiel frowns. “We’re saving lives here, too, Dean. Me and your brother and all the others.”

“Yeah.” Dean snorts. “By _reading_.”

“Our _reading_ helps you with hunting,” Castiel says. “You would have no idea how to kill monsters if it weren’t for our books.”

“I’ve been doing this my whole life, pal,” Dean mocks. His face is back to being angry and closed-off and Castiel honestly doesn’t know how it happened. “I never needed your books.”

“So you’re saying your brother’s job is useless,” Castiel says and takes a step forward. “That _my_ job is useless.”

Dean shrugs, his eyes staring straight into Castiel’s. They’re very green. 

“I’m saying,” Dean says, voice low, “you’d be dead within minutes if you ever faced a real monster.”

“A real monster — like a wendigo, for instance?”

“That was luck,” Dean murmurs. Castiel keeps watching him, his angry frown, his narrowed eyes, the way they flick down for a split of second and then go back up, the way his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips. 

“I saved your life, Dean,” Castiel growls. 

“Yeah, you’re still just a librarian who can’t even cook—”

“You should,” Castiel is moving forward, crowding Dean against the sink before he realises what he’s doing, “show me some respect.”

Dean’s breath hitches.

“Hey, guys, have you seen Kev— Oh!” 

Castiel tears his gaze from Dean’s face — so close to his own, flushed and angry and attractive — and looks at Charlie standing in the door to the kitchen.

“Kevin is busy with translation,” he says and steps back from Dean. He realises his own heart is racing, but he doesn’t stop to question it. “He’s probably in his room. Do you need help with anything?”

“Uhh.” Charlie glances from Castiel to Dean to Castiel again, blinks, then nods slowly. “Yeah, actually. You guys wanna help me with some computer work?”

Castiel opens his mouth to refuse — he’s tired, all of a sudden — but then Dean shuffles past him, roughly shoving his shoulder into Castiel’s body.

“Can’t, I’m going out,” he bites and flees from the kitchen.

“What?” Charlie stares after him. “Dean! Where are you going! Your leg!”

When she looks back at Castiel, dumbfounded, he just shrugs. “He’ll be fine. And actually, yes, I’d love to help you. What is it that we’re going to do?”

Charlie beams and starts telling him about a new computer program that will allow them to store all their records in separate folders and tag them appropriately for easier browsing. Castiel follows her, trying to convince himself their job is extremely important and no one, especially not a hunter with a broken leg, a fiery personality, and pretty eyes, can take it away from him. His family tried to do that and almost succeeded, but Castiel managed to get out just in time. It won’t happen again.

He ends up thinking about Dean Winchester for the entire evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 4**

_4-8 October2008_

If Dean had any idea it would take so fucking long to heal a broken leg, he would have let the wendigo eat him alive.

He grabs another handful of peanuts from the bowl in front of him and lets out a bored sigh. He eats slowly, crunching as loudly as possible while the nerds around him talk and talk and talk. They don’t even let him put his legs on the table and those chairs are possibly the most uncomfortable things he’s ever sat on. 

He grabs a small peanut and, instead of eating it, he flicks it at Sam who’s sitting just beside him. The peanut disappears in Sam’s lush hair without him noticing.

Dean snorts. Sam stops talking and turns to glare at him.

“Anything you want to add?” he asks.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Nope.”

“Then shut up,” Sam says politely.

Dean shrugs, eats some more peanuts, looks around. They’re all gathered in the library for their weekly librarian council, a.k.a. the quickest way to bore Dean out of his fucking mind. Sam keeps talking, big leader that he is, and Kevin seems to be actually taking notes. Charlie has a tablet with her and Dean pouts in her direction for a while. She’s probably playing games and ignoring Sam. Ellen and Pamela are listening closely, as are the Milton kids — Hannah and Gadreel, if Dean remembers correctly. He doesn’t really know them since they’re new and Dean can’t be bothered to talk to them, to be honest. 

There’s also Cas, of course. He’s sitting on the other side of Sam and Dean can’t see what he’s doing. Probably staring at Sam with stars in his eyes or reading something. Nerd.

Dean picks up another peanut and chucks it at Sam’s head. This time, Hannah notices and narrows her eyes at him. Dean grins and shrugs. 

The third peanut lands on Sam’s shoulder. He’s wearing a sweater vest — an actual, honest to God, dull-brown sweater vest — and the peanut looks so fucking ridiculous against the soft fabric that Dean huffs a laugh again.

“ _What_ ,” Sam asks, annoyed, and when he turns his head to glare at Dean, one of the peanuts in his hair falls down to the floor.

Dean bends in half, laughing.

“What… Dean! What the hell are you doing?” Sam brushes the peanut off his shoulder. “Stop it.”

“Hey, you’re wasting perfectly good peanuts,” Dean protests with a snort.

“Then stop _throwing_ them at me,” Sam grunts.

“Okay,” Dean says and tosses another peanut at his brother. This time, though, it goes way over his head.

Castiel leans back in his chair and scowls at Dean behind Sam’s back. There’s a peanut in his hand.

“Is this yours?” he asks.

Dean blinks innocently. “No,” he says and throws another one. It hits Castiel in the chest.

He’s not wearing a sweater vest, at least, just a nice blue button-down that does wonders to his eyes. Not that Dean notices.

Dean doesn’t catch the moment Cas stands up and suddenly he has a whole six feet of the guy hovering above him, his face grumpy and his pink lips pulled tight. Dean swallows, but ignores the fluttery feeling in his belly and grins up at him.

“Hi,” he says with a raised brow.

Castiel leans down — Dean’s breath catches in his throat — and reaches for the bowl of peanuts that’s still standing on the table. Then he straightens up.

“You won’t be needing that anymore, I presume,” he says and there’s an actual flicker of authority in his eyes. Dean suppresses a shiver.

“Thanks, Castiel,” Sam says, exasperated, and send Dean another scowl. “As I was saying…”

Dean lets his head roll back with a low groan.

***

They put him on nerd duty.

At least that’s what Dean is calling it in his head while he stomps around the bookshelves with stacks of files in his arms. He’s supposed to organise them by year, case, author, and some other shit he can’t remember, but his leg is slowing him down and his eyes water from all the dust.

He can’t _stand it_ anymore. His skin is itching, his body raring to go, to hunt, to sit in the Impala and just drive for miles and miles. He’s been here for almost three weeks already and it’s the longest he’s sat on his ass doing nothing since the whole thing with Cassie and he feels almost ready to jump out of his skin.

If only the Men of Letters life was even remotely interesting. They don’t even let him drink too much, even though he knows they have plenty of whiskey stashed somewhere around here.

He’s just sat down for a moment when Hannah enters the library. She lifts a brow at him, unimpressed.

“Just catching a breath,” he mutters.

“Good,” she says and dives into one of the bookshelves. “Sam would be unhappy to learn you’re neglecting your duties.”

Dean scowls. “Those aren’t my duties. I’ve been forced to do that. Ellen said she won’t give me any more pie.”

Hannah ignores him, pulls out a heavy tome, and sits down on the other side of Dean’s table.

“Also,” Dean says, because he’s been quiet for the last two hours and he’s a talkative guy, sue him, “Sam’s not your boss, you know. You don’t actually have to listen to everything he says.”

“I know,” Hannah answers without looking up.

“Do you? I don’t think you do. What are you doing now?”

“Looking for a spell.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Sam asked me to.” As if feeling Dean’s judgy gaze on her, she lifts her head. “Can I ask you something, Dean?”

Dean makes a face. “I guess.”

“Do you hate your brother?”

“What?” Dean sputters. “No! Why?”

“You keep undermining his work. You insult him to his face. You’re being a generally unpleasant person.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. “Screw you,” he says with feeling.

Hannah remains calm. “I’m just telling you what everyone is thinking.”

Dean feels himself pout. “I don’t care.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

Dean wants to stand up and leave — honestly, fuck this place — but Hannah stops him.

“Wait. I wanted to ask you something, actually.”

***

“I don’t hate Sam,” Dean says as he disarms the gun and shows every part to Hannah. She keeps watching, intrigued, and Dean feels a small fraction of his bad mood disappear. This? This is what he’s good at. Weapons, guns, the firing range. Even his leg doesn’t bother him that much now.

“Do you respect him?” Hannah asks. She takes the gun out of Dean’s hands and repeats all his movements without a hint of hesitation.

“What? Of course I do.” He shows her how to load it, next, and she follows his fingers with her eyes. They’re blue and kind of remind Dean of Castiel’s. 

Kind of.

“It doesn’t seem like you do.”

“I’m an older brother. I gotta mock him from time to time,” Dean says with a grin.

“I’ve got four older brothers,” Hannah says, eyes narrowed. “They never mocked me as much as you do. Well, maybe except for Gabriel.”

Dean turns towards the range, feigning disinterest. “Cas is older than you?”

“Yes.” Hannah looks at him, then follows his stance. “Five years.”

It doesn’t tell him much. “And you’re…?” He lifts her hands a bit higher, for now without a gun, kicks lightly at her foot to move it back. 

“I’m what?” Hannah asks.

Dean tilts his head. “How old are you?”

“Oh. Twenty-eight in December.”

That makes Cas thirty-three, only four years older than Dean. Not that he cares, but he was curious.

“And Gadreel is thirty-one,” Hannah informs. “In case you were wondering about that, too.”

He glances at her, but she doesn’t look like she’s teasing him. She actually believes Dean was interested in all of the Miltons’ ages, how cute.

“Cool,” he says with only a hint of sarcasm. “Now put your headphones on.”

Fifteen minutes later they’re inspecting the holes in Hannah’s cutout when the door to the firing range opens and Castiel steps in. He stops in his tracks when they both look up at him.

“Castiel,” Hannah greets. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Cas steps closer. “You’re needed. I mean. Charlie sent me down here for you. She said she needs your help with the pantry.”

Hannah takes off the headphones and hands them to Dean. “Of course. Thank you for teaching me, Dean. Maybe you’re not so useless after all,” she says and oh, _now_ she’s smirking. Dean rolls his eyes at her.

The door closes and when Dean looks up again, he sees that Castiel is still there.

“Hiya, Cas,” he says and smiles. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas answers, but doesn’t move.

Dean looks down at the headphones in his hands, then looks up again and lifts his brow at Castiel. The man bites his lip.

Then he turns on his heel. 

Dean’s heart sinks.

He’s about to say something offensive, but then he notices Castiel isn’t walking away, just going towards the closet with all the weapons. After a moment, he comes back with one of the Walthers in his hands. Dean smirks.

“Okay,” Dean says. “As you wish.”

“I may be a _librarian_ ,” Cas says, sending him a pointed look, “but I know how to use a gun.”

“Aww, shucks. And I actually hoped I could train you,” Dean drawls.

Cas is standing with his side to him, so Dean can only see one part of his face, but he can swear his right ear is pinker than a few seconds before. Dean bites back a grin and puts his own headphones on.

“Loser buys beer,” he says loudly.

“We’ve got beer,” Cas answers.

Dean watches as he stands straight, one long leg in front, arms strong and raised in a perfect line. He has a look of concentration on his face and his eyes stay on the target in front of him, but he’s still not shooting, waiting for Dean to get ready.

“Loser buys more beer, then,” Dean chuckles, and then they’re going.

Dean’s ears are ringing just a bit when they slide their cutouts towards them. He’s pretty satisfied with himself — most of the bullets hit the head, one sliced through the neck and two through the chest. If it were a vampire, a werewolf, or a human — it would definitely be dead by now.

He’s still grinning when he puts down his gun and his headphones and then swaggers over to where Cas is standing, and then his jaw drops.

Cas’ cutout has a perfect heart shot though its chest.

“You were saying something about beer?” Cas says. His voice sounds flat and his face is impassive, but Dean has been dancing around him for the last three weeks and he’s learned to notice the way Cas’ eyes are glinting mischievously, his lips twitching. Dean can’t stop staring.

“You cheated,” he mutters, still deep in shock.

“No,” Cas says, voice smooth. “I just know how to shoot. Here, you should remember about your shoulders. Do not lift them to your ears.”

Dean barely has time to think before Cas is standing right behind him, his hands sliding up his arms and resting firmly on his shoulders, pushing them down gently. They’re not holding their guns anymore, but Cas moves and presses against Dean’s elbows until he lifts them.

“Don’t lock your arms,” Cas murmurs and fuck, his breath whispers against the back of Dean’s neck, making his hair stand on its end. Dean’s heart is pounding. “They should be extended, but relaxed.”

“Mhm,” Dean grunts cleverly.

“Oh?” Cas fingers tap his shoulder, again, and press into the thick skin there. “What did I tell you about lifting your shoulders?”

“Mhm,” Dean repeats. His throat is completely dry. “How do you— H-how do you know so much?”

Cas actually laughs, and it’s low, raspy, and fucking hot. Dean is so screwed.

“I read a lot,” Cas says.

And then he’s gone and Dean’s body sags back, surprised. He blinks and whips his head to stare at Cas, who’s moving back towards the closet and putting the gun and the headphones back. He turns to Dean with a small smile. 

“You should practice a bit longer,” he says, the fucker, and Dean wants to punch him, or kiss him, or possibly both, but he can’t because his body seems to be unable to move on its own. “See you at dinner, Dean.”

He’s gone in the next moment.

“What just happened?” Dean murmurs to himself, then groans, strides over to his gun and headphones, and continues to shoot mercilessly through his cutout for the next half hour.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 5**

_15-21 October2008_

Sam usually reads the news with his morning coffee.

He’s freshly showered after his run, french toast in his left hand and a tablet in his right. He skims through the article about a missing girl, munching on the toast, but it doesn’t look like their kind of thing, so he scrolls down. An ad for new healthy dog food catches his eye and he spends a good minute perusing the description and storing it in the back of his mind. May come in handy one day, right?

Ellen comes into the kitchen not a quarter-hour later, looking pleased and well-rested. Sam smiles at her, and she smiles back easily.

“Have I ever told you you make the best coffee in the world, Ellen?” he asks and replaces the phone in his hand with his mug.

Ellen sits down across from him with her own cup. “You have, sweetie. Every morning.”

“Well, it’s true.” Sam shrugs. 

He still remembers the first time Ellen appeared at his doorstep — well, the bunker’s doorstep — a phone clutched in her hand and her face distressed. It had been less than a month since they had closed the gates of hell and Sam had no idea what happened after he left to find the bunker. Ellen said Jo insisted on hunting on her own, but she hadn’t heard from her in a few days and started to worry. Sam ushered her in and together they managed to track Jo down, call her, and help her hunt the nasty Leshii. At first, Ellen travelled back home and only came back sometimes, but soon Jo’s hunts became more regular and Ellen decided to move in and help her daughter as best as she could without actually hunting herself.

“Any cases?” Ellen asks now, sounding bored. She doesn’t actually like when they find any because there’s a risk Jo will be ready to handle whatever next monster decided to crawl out of hell. She knows they need to keep looking, though, and makes an excellent Woman of Letters, what with her huge database of hunters and great cooking abilities. Okay, that last thing doesn’t make her an excellent Woman of Letters, precisely, but it does make her invaluable.

“Nah,” Sam says, and that’s when his phone chimes. Ellen lifts a brow and he huffs a laugh. “Maybe?”

When he reads the text, he can feel his smile widen.

“What is it?” Ellen asks.

“Oh, just Eileen,” Sam says, matter-of-fact. “She’s coming back today.”

Ellen grins at him. 

“What?” Sam asks and pockets his phone.

“Nothing.” Ellen waves her hand, but doesn’t stop smiling. “Do you think she found it?”

“The book? I know she did.”

“Oh, she told you?”

“Um, no. But I know she did. Who else if not her?” Sam says, shrugs, and then busies himself with his toast when Ellen starts laughing.

She’s still in a mysteriously contented mood when others start filing into the kitchen for their morning doses of caffeine and calories. Sam tells Charlie and Pamela about Eileen’s return and they start insinuating silly things so he excuses himself and flees from the kitchen into the library. Kevin and Gadreel are there, poring over a text in ancient Sumerian, and they give him thumb-ups when he shares the news about Eileen. Sam huffs and stalks back into the kitchen. It’s empty now except for Dean. Good. Dean won’t tease him because he doesn’t know— 

“Sammy!” Dean seems to be in a good mood, which is suspicious because there’s still a week of him wearing the cast and he’s been insufferable for the last month. 

“Morning,” Sam says. He finds the freshly made coffee and pours himself a new cup.

“So?” Dean’s cheek is full of toast and he’s chewing and talking simultaneously. It’s disgusting.

“So _what_?” Sam lifts his brows at him.

“Who’s this Eileen chick everyone’s talking about?”

“Oh, for God’s— Seriously?” Sam stands up and retreats, ignoring Dean’s stupid guffaw and the heat he can feel on his cheeks. 

Maybe he can hide in a dungeon.

He notices Castiel, still in his pyjamas and with horrendous bedhead, shuffling towards the kitchen.

“Hi,” Sam greets with a small wave. Castiel seems barely awake and fortunately doesn’t say anything about Eileen, just nods at him. “Uh, Cas?” Sam calls when they pass each other.

“Yes?” Castiel turns to look at him, almost in the doorway to the kitchen.

Sam points behind his back. “Just so you know, Dean’s in there and he’s awfully chirpy today. Good luck with him.”

He can’t say for sure because the war room is a bit dim, but he swears he can almost see Castiel perk up at his words, a barely-there cheery smile on his face.

“Thank you,” Castiel says.

His voice sounds normal enough, so Sam shrugs and stalks towards his room. He should change. The shirt he’s wearing doesn’t match those jeans, after all, he decides.

***

Okay, so maybe, just _maybe_ , he knows why everyone was being weird around him this morning. He’s actually just starting to realise this himself and he definitely doesn’t want to scare anyone away, but Eileen’s been gone for a really, really long time and, well, he missed her.

He can also say that in sign language now because he’s been practicing.

Which is exactly what he does when they separate after their welcoming hug. Eileen is wearing her hair in Sam’s favourite kind of ponytail, and she’s smiling and smelling really good.

“ _I missed you too_ ,” Eileen signs at him and he’s more than a hundred percent sure no one but him can understand it, but he still hears whistles. But maybe it’s because he ducks his head and feels his ears go red. 

Well.

She has the book, of course, and she tells them all about the stuff she had to do to get her hands on it while they drink afternoon coffee and eat Hannah’s muffins. Charlie and Cas are currently browsing through the book, admiring the drawings. It’s her grandfather’s journal, who was a Man of Letters, and Eileen had to travel all the way to Ireland to obtain it. 

Dean is sitting in the chair beside Sam and he kicks his foot for the third time in the last five minutes. Sam tears his gaze away from Eileen’s signing to stare at his brother.

“What are you kicking me for, dude?”

Dean wriggles his eyebrows. “ _Poor old Johnny Ray…_ ” he hums with a cocky grin.

Sam scoffs, kicks him back, and turns away with a scowl.

_So immature._

“I’m just sayin’,” Dean laughs. “She’s pretty, man.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Eileen says from her chair. Dean startles and looks at her with wide terrified eyes.

Sam snorts a laugh.

“Uh,” Dean says, and his face gets pink. “You can hear me?”

Eileen shakes her head and smirks. “No, but I can read your lips.”

“Oh.” Dean’s hand immediately flies up to cover his mouth. Sam leans forward and smacks it down, then smiles at Eileen. She smiles back.

Sam looks around the library. “Anyone up for a movie night today?” 

***

Dean’s insufferable for the next week, and then his cast comes off, and he’s even worse.

“What do you mean, another week without hunting?” he asks, enraged.

Sam sighs. “Dude, this is not the first time you’ve broken anything. You know it takes time.”

“Yeah, but I’m telling you, I’m good to go!”

“You’re definitely not,” Charlie says.

“I am!”

“If I kicked you in your leg right now, you’d die of pain,” Kevin says.

“Well, then, don’t freakin’ kick me in my leg!”

“Dean, come on. Give it another week or two. There’s no case for you anyway.”

Dean pouts. “I’ll find something myself, don’t need you guys to assign me cases. Or I’ll join Benny, or Jo, or whoever.”

“You’re not going, yet,” Sam says and stands up. “Don’t make me lock you in your room.”

“Screw you, you’re not the boss of me!” Dean yells.

Castiel chooses this time to enter the library. He shoots Dean a confused look, then tilts his head at Sam. 

“What’s going on?”

“Great, maybe you can get to him,” Sam says. “He wants to go hunting.”

Castiel squints. “Is it that bad?”

“Ha! See?” Dean stands up, winces, and shuffles so he doesn’t stand fully on his right leg. “Cas gets it.”

“Oh.” Understanding dawns on Castiel’s face, and he turns to send Dean a disappointed look. “Dean, you can’t go hunting yet. Your leg is not fully—”

“Traitor,” Dean mumbles and plops down onto the chair.

“Although actually, I may have an offer for you,” Castiel says and comes forward to take the chair just beside Dean. 

Sam, Charlie, and Kevin exchange looks. 

“An offer?” Dean asks, still grumpy. “What kind of offer?”

“I’ve been following a case myself,” he says and looks up at Sam, who only nods. “Rock Ridge, Colorado. Two people in the last week have died of a heart attack.”

Sam can feel his eyebrows raise, but it’s Dean who comments out loud. 

“A heart attack?” he scoffs. “And you think it’s a case? Buddy, stick to your books and let the hunters—”

“I realise it doesn’t sound like a case yet,” Castiel says, voice clipped. “That’s why I’ve not taken it, so far. But the people that died were perfectly healthy and only in their twenties.”

Sam hums. “People die sometimes, man. It doesn’t mean—”

“Again, I _know_ ,” Castiel barks. “And yet I’m going to investigate it if another person dies.”

“And you think someone will?” Charlie asks.

“I hope not,” Castiel says. Then he turns to Dean. “But if they do, you can come with me. If it turns out to be nothing, your leg won’t suffer any strains. If it’s a case after all — well, you’ll have me to help you.”

“You’re not a hunter!” Dean protests, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“No, but it’s my case,” Castiel says. He sounds almost threatening. Sam smirks when he notices Dean’s visible gulp. “And you know I can hunt. Or, well, use a gun, at least.”

Castiel says it smugly and Sam watches with amusement as Dean’s face grows darker with some unidentifiable emotion. 

“I like the idea,” he says after Castiel and Dean stare at each other for the next thirty seconds or so. He clasps Castiel on his shoulder. “Let me know when there’s another body.”

The third person drops dead exactly one week later. Dean doesn’t even ask permission — he packs a bag, gives everyone a half-hearted wave, and follows Castiel outside.

Sam just hopes he doesn’t break another limb this time.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 6**

_29 October 2008_

“Wade O’Brien,” Castiel reads out loud while Dean wipes the intestinal juice off his face. “Twenty-three years old. Used to run marathons. Cause of death: a heart attack.”

“Well, the mortician said his heart seemed fine,” Dean mutters, dries his hands on the paper towels, and throws them into the trash can under the sink. “And since I was the one that had to hold it _in my own hands_ , I can confirm it. It _looked_ fine.”

Castiel closes the file and Dean turns towards him. They’re standing in the morgue’s bathroom in Colorado, not even five feet between them, and Castiel can see one last drop of the yellowish juice right under Dean’s right ear.

Castiel points at it with his finger. “There’s still some of it left.”

Dean groans. “Why did I have to be the one to get sprinkled with the guy’s guts?”

“It wasn’t his guts. It was his—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Is it all gone now?” Dean tilts his head and exposes his neck. Castiel’s fingers grip the file more tightly. 

“Yes,” he says. “We should interview Wade O’Brien’s girlfriend.”

“Don’t call it an interview, dude,” Dean says as they go out of the bathroom and into the sunny parking lot. “That word scares people. You won’t get anything out of her if you’re going to behave like someone who’s _interviewing_ her.”

“Oh, you mean like an FBI agent, the one that I’m impersonating?” Castiel says.

Dean scowls at him. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do. I know what talking with the witnesses means, Dean.”

“ _I don’t think you do_ , Cas,” Dean mocks him. They get into the Impala and Castiel sends Dean an unimpressed glare. “You all but drilled that poor mortician with all those questions.”

“I didn’t _drill_ anyone.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, you did! He thought you were insane. You definitely didn’t talk like an FBI agent. You should leave the talking to me.”

“As you wish,” Castiel says and turns to glare at the window.

The drive to Colorado was mostly alright; Dean was in a good mood, finally able to get out of the bunker and go hunting. They spent some time actually talking, some arguing, and some trying to ignore each other in the small space of the car. Dean didn’t let him drive the Impala and tried to control the investigation, but Castiel could be stubborn, too; it was his case and he offered it to Dean out of his own good will, after all.

But if Dean thinks Castiel is incapable of managing a simple case, so be it.

They arrive at the victim’s house and go inside, where they’re greeted by his girlfriend, Nicole. Castiel barely says anything, except for some brief comforting words, and tries to look as offended at Dean as he can without actually being too impolite to the girl.

“I just… I don’t get it,” Nicole says through her tears. Dean sends her a friendly smile and passes her a box of Kleenex. “Wade was… He was… He ran so much! He was healthy! He had a diet!”

Dean nods, thoughtful. “I understand it’s a difficult to understand, Nicole. It seems really unfair, right?”

Nicole sniffs. “Well, yes, of course! He was so young. So healthy. He had a diet! He actually made me go on a diet, too, you know?”

“He _made_ you go on a diet?” Dean asks. “You didn’t want it?”

“Well, I mean, I guess it was good for me.” She wipes at her eyes with the tissue. “He said all those burgers weren’t doing me any favours and that it’d be easier for him if, you know, I didn’t eat them, too.”

Dean sends Castiel a pointed look. “Would you say he, um, coerced you?”

Nicole stares blankly at him. “Coerced?”

“Forced you into dieting,” Dean explains. “Even though you didn’t want it.”

“Well, yeah, but after a while I didn’t care…”

The girl and Dean keep talking, but Castiel catches a movement in the corner of the room. He stands up slowly and takes a few careful steps. The movement repeats, one of the orange curtains shake, and then a black cat springs out into the centre of the room.

In the corner of his eyes, Castiel sees Dean gasp loudly and jerk violently in his chair.

“Oh, God,” Dean says, breathless. His hand is covering his heart through his suit. “Your cat just scared the hell out of me.”

Nicole bends and takes the cat into her arms. Dean keeps eyeing it suspiciously and moves his chair back a few inches. 

“This is Wanda. You don’t have to be scared of her. She’s friendly and she… she… she’s the only thing I have left now…”

The girl starts crying again, but Dean doesn’t start comforting her this time, just keeps sitting in his chair, straight as a rod, eyes glued to the cat. The cat glares back at him.

“Dean,” Castiel says, coming closer. 

Dean jerks and looks back at him. “What?”

“I think we’ve got everything we wanted, don’t we?”

The cat meows and Dean shudders. 

“Yes,” he says and stands up. “Let’s get out of here.”

Once they’re outside, Castiel stops Dean with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you afraid of cats?” he asks.

Dean snorts, but he’s still wide-eyed and jittery. “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him, but then nods and gets into the Impala.

He’s got a bad feeling.

***

“I think Wade wasn’t a nice boyfriend,” Castiel says. “The girlfriend didn’t say anything directly, but that’s the impression I got.”

“Okay.” Sam’s voice crackles through the speaker of the phone. “Dean? You think so too?”

Castiel looks up at Dean, who’s sitting stiffly on the edge of his bed and staring through the window. He doesn’t react to Sam’s voice.

“Dean,” Castiel calls.

Dean jerks out of his reverie. “Yeah?”

“What do you think?” Sam asks again.

“Yeah, whatever Cas said,” Dean says and turns back to stare at the window.

Castiel lets out a breath, turns off the speaker, and puts his phone to his ear. 

“Is something wrong?” Sam asks.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel mutters, eyes not leaving Dean’s tense posture. “He’s behaving a bit strangely.”

“Strangely _how_?”

“Like he’s scared of something. He was really scared of the cat earlier.”

“The cat?” Sam laughs. “Dean’s allergic to cats, maybe that’s why.”

“No, that’s not it. He didn’t sneeze or anything, he just became really jumpy. Right now,” Castiel lowers his voice, “he’s sitting on the bed and just… staring out the window. He’s been like that for the last ten minutes.”

“Uh, okay,” Sam says, uncertain. “Maybe he’s just tired.”

“Maybe.” Castiel bites his lips. “Or maybe not. Do you know of any monsters that kill by fear?”

Sam takes in a loud breath. “Oh, shit. You think the vic died of fear, not a heart attack? And now Dean’s having the symptoms?” When Castiel hums in confirmation, Sam continues. “But why Dean?”

“Well, he did get splashed by the victim’s intestinal juice and held his heart for a few seconds,” Castiel says quietly, ignoring Sam’s gasp. “And if my theory is right, the illness, or whatever that is, infects people with quite a, umm, strong personality.”

“Strong personality,” Sam repeats. Castiel watches as Dean finally gets up, stalks closer to the window, and then draws the curtains shut. He seems to be shivering slightly. “You mean bullies.”

“Yes, I think Wade O’Brien could have been a bully. The mortician mentioned that he and the other two boys that died had quite a reputation in town. And then there was the girlfriend.”

Dean turns on the bed and grabs the comforter that’s lying on top of it. 

“So he was a dick.”

“Probably, yes,” Castiel murmurs, watching as Dean covers himself with the comforter.

“So you’re saying my brother’s a dick.” There’s a hint of amusement in Sam’s voice.

Castiel huffs a soft laugh. “I’m not saying he’s not.”

“Okay,” Sam concludes. “I think you may be onto something here, Cas. I’ll hit the books and get back to you as soon as I know anything, okay?”

Castiel ignores the way it feels weird to be called ‘Cas’ by someone other than Dean, murmurs a goodbye, and hangs up, all the while observing Dean curling in on himself on the bed.

“Dean,” he finally says. 

Dean whips his head at him, eyes big and alarmed. Castiel stands up slowly, trying not to spook him any further, and Dean continues to stare at him as he comes closer.

“How are you feeling?” 

Dean shakes his head. “I dunno, Cas. I’m k-kinda cold.”

Castiel touches Dean’s forehead. It’s hot. 

“I think you’ve got a fever. Let me get you something to drink.”

“Just, uh.” Dean looks down and worries his lower lip with his teeth. 

Castiel shuffles closer. “Yes, Dean?”

“Don’t go anywhere, okay?” Dean mumbles.

Castiel smirks. “There are no cats here, Dean, don’t worry.”

Dean whines and hides his face behind the comforter. Castiel gulps, pats Dean’s shoulder, and goes to make some tea.

***

“What’s the worst thing you can imagine?” Dean asks quietly.

Castiel looks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress across from Dean and browsing through the local newspaper in search of more information on Wade’s death. Dean’s still wrapped in a comforter, a half-empty mug of tea in his hands. His eyes are still wide and his lips keep trembling. Castiel wants to reach out and take Dean’s hand, but he knows he can’t take advantage of Dean’s vulnerability like that. 

Sam called them about half an hour ago, proclaimed Dean ‘ghost sick,’ and called the monster ‘a buruburu, a Japanese ghost that forms out of fear and makes its victims scared to death.’ Dean started hyperventilating when he heard that, then admitted he had no idea what that meant, and then burrowed back into his bed. It took Castiel a few minutes to convince him to sit down and drink more tea. Dean made him drink some too and sit down on the bed with him, just to be safe.

“There are many bad things I can imagine,” Castiel answers. He doesn’t elaborate.

“‘Cause, like, right now? I’m scared of everything. I’d probably die watching a horror movie.” Dean laughs weakly, then hides half of his face behind the comforter.

Castiel sends him a fond look. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m wondering.” He stays silent for a moment and Castiel watches him, his shaking fingers and flushed face. He looks so young and defenseless like that. “I’m scared of planes. I fucking hate flying.”

“A lot of people are afraid of flying,” Castiel says gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But it’s ridiculous,” Dean mumbles. “Everyone flies everywhere and I get panic attacks when I have to get onto a plane.”

Castiel puts the tablet away and reaches out to brush his fingers along Dean’s arm. “There are no planes here now. Don’t think about them.”

“I can’t. I just. My head keeps giving me all those scenarios. I can see the plane crashing. It’s crashing, Cas. I knew it would crash. I knew it, oh God, I knew it…”

“Dean.” Castiel shuffles closer. “There’s no plane. You’re in a hotel.”

“Are we high off the ground?” Dean looks up at him with round eyes. “What floor is it?”

“Fourth,” Castiel says, confused.

Dean takes in a sudden breath. “Oh my God. It’s so high. It’s so fucking high.”

“Dean.” Castiel catches Dean by both arms and shakes him a little. “You have to calm down. You’re okay, you’re in bed. Nothing’s bad going to happen to you in bed.”

“I could fall down.” Dean looks down at the floor. “Oh, God. I could fall down.”

“No.” Castiel sighs. “No, you’re not going to fall down.”

“What if Sam gets hurt?” Dean’s fingers start to shake so much he can’t hold the mug any longer. Castiel barely manages to catch it before the tea spills onto the bed. “What if Sam dies?”

“Sam is safe at the bunker.” Castiel rubs Dean’s arms through the thick comforter. “He’s okay. Everyone’s okay.”

“I’m scared for him. Like, all the time. He doesn’t even hunt anymore and I’m still scared.”

“It’s okay to be scared sometimes…”

“I’m scared he’ll leave me.” Dean sways forward, leans his head against Castiel’s outstretched arm. “He’ll leave me just like everyone else leaves.”

“No one’s leaving you, Dean.” Castiel realises his heart is hammering in his chest right now, too, even though he’s not the one sick. He’s not sure what to do anymore. “Sam would never leave you.”

“He would. He would,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s arm. “ _She_ did.”

Castiel knows it’s not the time to ask, but something unpleasant twists his insides at Dean’s words.

Before either of them can say something again, there’s a loud knock at the door. Dean jumps.

“Shhh.” Castiel surges forward and catches Dean in a quick hug. Dean sags against him with a shuddering sigh. “You’re okay, Dean. It’s just the door. Can you lie down for a moment? I’ll go get it.”

Dean nods against his chest.

“I’ll be back in a second,” Castiel assures him and helps Dean lower himself to the bed. Dean closes his eyes and hides under the comforter.

Castiel goes to the door, hoping to get rid of whomever is behind it quickly, but hesitates when he sees a young man standing outside their room.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Agent Tyler?” 

They end up sitting by the table, the man — Nathan — sneaking uncertain glances at Dean buried in the bed. It turns out Nathan knew Wade as well as the other two victims.

“Well, ‘knew’ is a big word,” he snorts. “More like, they knew how to make my life into a living hell.”

Castiel winces. “So they did bully people.”

“Not everyone.” Nathan shrugs. “But I’m gay and they didn’t like it very much.”

Castiel tenses. “Did you kill them, Nathan?”

The man blanches. “What? Oh my God, no! That’s not why I’m here, I swear.”

“Then why are you here?” Castiel asks, glancing at Dean, who’s turning in bed and muttering something to himself. 

“I had a friend,” Nathan says hesitantly. “Well, more like a boyfriend, though he wasn’t really out. His name was Keith.” He drops his gaze to the table. “He had an accident. It was a few years ago.”

“What kind of accident?” Castiel asks.

“Motorbike. But, uh. There’s more.”

Castiel bumps his knuckles against the table.

“We dated only for a month or so, and then it was over. Keith was scared of everyone learning he was gay, you know. And, uh, one day, he saw Wade and the other guys beat the shit out of me.”

Castiel lets out a deep sigh.

“I saw him. He knew I saw him. But he, uh. He didn’t do anything to stop them. He turned away and got on his bike and drove away. Then he had an accident and died.”

Castiel straightens up. Sam said that buruburu were borne out of fear and cowardice.

“Why are you telling me this?” Castiel asks, even though he knows.

“‘Cause I saw Keith, the last time I visited his grave,” Nathan admits.

Dean sits up on bed with a quiet cry, as if woken from a nightmare.

“Y-you,” he utters, climbing out of the bed on shaky legs. He still looks scared, but there’s a hint of determination on his face. “You have to show us.”


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 7**

_29 October 2008_

This was a tremendously bad idea, Dean thinks as yet another black bird flies over their heads, screeching and making him jump a foot in the air and almost shit his pants.

“Cas?” he whispers, voice weak. “Cas! Where are you?”

“Right behind you,” Cas says and Dean gasps.

“Fuck! Okay. Okay. This is scary,” he confesses.

Castiel looks at him with a raised brow. “We’re going to be fine, Dean. I promise.”

“Okay,” Dean repeats. “I believe you.”

Cas nods, presses a hand into Dean’s shoulder, and gently pushes him forward. Dean’s boots scuffle the uneven cemetery path, then kick a small rock which hits one of the tombstones with a loud noise.

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “Shit shit shit.”

Castiel’s flashlight leaves the graves around them and focuses on Dean’s face. 

“Are you alright? How are you feeling?” Cas asks, worry audible in his quiet voice. Dean revels in it for a moment.

“Like an idiot in a horror movie,” Dean says. “Why are we even here? It’s dark. People shouldn’t be roaming around cemeteries when it’s dark.”

“You insisted on coming with me,” Cas says. The palm on Dean’s shoulder moves lower, onto his back. “I told you to stay in the room.”

“By myself? Are you crazy?” Dean screeches, then grimaces. Wow, he’s being ridiculous. He hopes he doesn’t remember this when all of this is over. “I mean. We gotta… You know. Find the ghost.”

“Yes.” Castiel moves the light from his face, fortunately, but his hand stays on Dean’s back. It’s grounding, somehow, and Dean leans back into it. “Shall we move, then?”

“What?” Dean murmurs, distracted. It’s dark, but he can still see the skin of Castiel’s neck right where his coat ends and where his shirt is buttoned up a bit inelegantly. Dean feels cold again and wishes he could just touch Cas’ skin, soak up his warmth, his comfort.

Cas’ hand disappears. Dean sways, unstable.

“Let’s move on,” Cas insists, and then there are warm fingers circling Dean’s wrist and tugging him forward. He follows without hesitation.

All they know is that they’re looking for a young-looking ghost who’s being punished for his cowardice and acting as some kind of a Japanese spirit that clings to people’s backs and frightens them to death. Dean keeps looking over his shoulder, afraid he’s going to see something attached to his jacket and breathing down his neck, but he can’t see anything except for the gloomy darkness of the graveyard.

He’s never been afraid of graveyards before. It’s not a feeling he particularly likes.

He looks over his shoulder again, almost certain he can feel something on his back. The pathway behind them is empty and quiet.

“Cas,” he whispers nervously. Cas doesn’t stop to look at him, just tightens his grip on Dean’s wrist and keeps going. “Cas.”

“Come on, Dean. We have to find this—”

“Cas,” Dean pleads. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle and his breath hitches. 

“Don’t be scared, Dean.” Castiel turns to him, and his palm slides down Dean’s hand and finds his fingers. He squeezes. “I’m here.”

“But I—” Dean hears something in his ear and yelps, turning to catch it. There’s nothing, though, but he still feels it, the raspy breath, and heaviness on his back, it’s there, it has to be there…

“Dean!” Castiel’s hands find Dean’s fingers again and pull him forward. Dean collides with Cas’ chest. His heart is hammering.

“There’s something on my back,” Dean whispers urgently. “Cas, there’s something on my back.”

He can see Castiel’s brow furrow. “I don’t see anything.”

“Cas, please.” Dean moves closer, fingers almost crushing Castiel’s hands. “Please.”

“You have to calm down, Dean,” Cas says, voice soothing and doing nothing to help him. 

“I can’t. I can’t. My heart is beating so fast. I’m gonna die. Cas, I’m gonna die,” Dean moans.

Cas lets go of Dean’s hands and pulls him into a hug. “There’s nothing on your back,” he assures, his breath hot against Dean’s cheek. “I swear. Please breathe, Dean.”

Dean breathes in, then out, along with Cas’ instructing breaths. He feels Cas’ palm on his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. Dean covers them with his own hand and breathes into the crook between Cas’ neck and his shoulder.

After a long moment, he feels his breath calm down and his heart slow. He realises his eyes are closed against Cas’ warm skin, both hands clutching at Cas’ coat.

He shuffles away. “Sorry, man. I’m— I’m better now.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel’s eyes sweep over Dean’s face just as his hand strokes Dean’s shoulder. 

“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. He’s probably flushed again. “We should go find that son of a bitch.”

Cas smiles, or at least Dean thinks he can see him do that in the dark. “Okay, then.”

“Just—” Dean reaches out and takes Cas’ hand into his again. 

Now, he’s a hundred percent certain Cas is smiling at him.

“You sure there’s nothing on my back?” Dean asks again and Cas huffs a soft laugh.

“Yes, Dean. Come on. I believe Keith’s grave is just under that tree.” 

 

***

Half an hour later Dean feels something jump onto his back.

“Dean!” Cas calls out, as if Dean wasn’t able to feel the weight of something sending him down to the ground, onto his knees and hands and barely avoiding falling into the yawning grave they’ve been digging up just a few seconds ago.

Dean’s heart is racing and something is pushing its claws deep into his skin. He’s cold again — so, so cold, his whole body shaking, teeth chattering, skin almost ablaze from the chill he feels crawling all over him. His arms give up and he crashes face-down into the cold dirt, and he can’t breathe, he can’t move, he wouldn’t move even if he could because he’s all but paralysed with fear. Something rasps into his ear and scratches at his back and pounds him into the ground mercilessly. There’s no air anymore. 

He screams when something squeezes him — it’s more like an inaudible gasp, really, because his lungs seem crushed — but then he’s being pulled up from the ground and into something warm.

“It’s gone,” Cas murmurs into his hair. Dean clings to him, breathes him in, all but crawls into his lap in search of that delicious warmth. “You’re okay.”

Dean starts feeling again: the cold ground beneath them, the crisp autumn air of the night around them, all quiet as a grave. Cas’ hands on him, against his jacket and his skin and then in his hair and on his face, Cas’ smell, Cas’ fast breath, Cas’ voice.

“Jesus,” Dean gasps and pulls away slowly. “What just happened.”

“It jumped at you,” Cas says, leaning forward to inspect Dean’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean stands, assisted by Cas’ hand, tries to brush the dirt off his clothes. “I think so. Did you kill it?”

“I— I flashed some light at it,” Cas says, as if he still can’t believe it worked. Dean’s doubt must show on his face, too, because he quickly adds, “And then, of course, I burned the remains. But the lights really seemed to scare it away at least for a moment.”

“I barely even registered it,” Dean mutters.

“I think you lost consciousness,” Cas says, without looking at him. “You were really cold and unresponsive for a moment. I almost thought you—”

“Hey.” Dean puts up a hand. “I didn’t. I’m fine.”

“You’re fine,” Cas repeats.

Dean rubs the hand over his neck. “Yeah. You kinda saved me, again. Uhh. Thank you.”

Castiel shrugs and smiles, but doesn’t respond. Dean lets out a heavy breath. 

“I think I need a drink,” he says.

***

The alcohol heats him up from the inside and on the outside. He finally feels more like himself — not terrified of everything, his heart beating at a normal, steady rate, fingers warm and alive. He also, unfortunately, remembers everything he felt and did when he was affected by the ghost sickness.

“Dude, I’m sorry I’ve been such a wuss,” he says and downs another shot.

Cas eyes the empty glass, then his fingers curl around his own shot. “It’s alright, Dean.”

“No, man,” Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. He’s embarrassed. “I mean, I was clingy and whiny. Sorry you had to put up with it.”

“I said it was alright,” Cas says and narrows his eyes at him. “It wasn’t your fault, you were sick.”

“I behaved like a chick,” Dean grumbles.

Cas knocks back his shot and noisily puts the glass down onto their table. His eyes land on Dean and shine dangerously.

“If you’re suggesting women are somehow more unstable and men are not allowed to show any weakness, please stop talking now,” he says, his voice low.

Dean gulps. “Uh. No. I’m not saying that,” he murmurs. 

“Aren’t you?”

“Well, maybe I was, but I won’t anymore, if you’re gonna get all prissy.”

Okay, so maybe now he’s deliberately saying too much, just to see Cas angrily flash those baby blues at him. He’ll blame it on the alcohol later.

“There’s nothing wrong with showing emotion,” Cas hisses, leaning over the table towards him. Dean leans in, too, curious. “The perception of men being somehow better than women, stronger and more composed emotionally is actually a big pile of bullshit.”

Dean can’t help it; he laughs out loud. 

“Say that again,” he manages.

Cas moves back and pouts at him. “What,” he grumbles.

“Say ‘bullshit’ again. I’ve never heard you swear before.”

“And you won’t hear me swear again,” Cas mutters and looks away.

“Oh, just wait and see. I’ll _make you_ swear.” The second those words leave Dean’s mouth, he feels his face grow red. Cas glances at him, his brows almost up to his hairline, and it’s Dean’s turn to look down.

Shit, the alcohol and the events of the day must really be getting to him. He stands up before he can say anything more stupid. 

“I’ll go get us more shots,” he grunts and stalks away.

There’s something under his skin, itching, making him restless and hungry and dumb, and it grows stronger with Cas around. He thinks it must be because he can still feel Cas all over him — his hands on his shoulders, his fingers curled around his wrist and squeezing his own hand. His smell, earthy and deep and tantalising, from when Dean kept nuzzling into his shoulder and losing his shit over the invisible weight on his back. The alcohol and a long hot shower should help with that, and then they’ll be ready to get back to bickering and ignoring each other.

He really, really hopes they will.

When he gets back to their table, Cas is typing on his phone, but he quickly puts it away when he notices Dean. Dean doesn’t know if it’s because he’s polite or because he’s texting someone and doesn’t want Dean to know. Dean pretends he doesn’t care.

They drink a few more shots before the world is finally starting to look more pleasant. Dean sags against his chair with a contented hum and heavy lids.

“We should get back,” he hears Cas say and nods.

It takes them two more shots — they’re so tasty and make everything easier so it’s not hard to convince Cas to drink more — and then they’re scrambling out of the bar and into a crispy night. 

“Where’s my car,” Dean mumbles, looking around.

“Not here,” Cas answers. He sounds too sober, Dean thinks. He should have made him drink more. “We came here on foot.”

“Oh no,” Dean says. The hotel seems miles away for his legs in this state. “We should… We should’ve taken her with us.”

“And who would drive?” Cas asks, pokes at Dean’s shoulder. “Come on.”

“I’d drive,” Dean scoffs. “Only I can drive her.”

“Your attachment to your car is a bit rici… ridilic… _funny_ ,” Cas says.

Dean looks at him. “Your _face_ is funny,” he laughs.

“No, _your_ face is funny.” 

Cas looks back at him and really, it’s a miracle they don’t walk into something while they stare at each other. Dean thinks maybe they should stop, but Cas’ face is _actually_ doing something funny and he laughs more, even though he doesn’t understand it.

Cas pouts at Dean’s laugh. Dean chuckles more and bumps Cas’ shoulder with his own. Cas bumps back, still staring.

Dean’s a tactile guy, but he’s downright touchy-feely when drunk. He reaches out and pushes Cas’ chest with both his hands, sending him a few steps back and almost colliding into a building behind him. Cas gasps and looks up at Dean with wide eyes.

And then they’re off.

Cas all but jumps at him, all hands and giggles. His fingers sink into Dean’s sides and Dean screeches and tries to free himself from his grip.

“You’re ticklish,” Cas breathes against his ear while Dean squirms and groans and laughs. 

“I’m not,” Dean pants, pushes at Cas’ shoulders, and breaks into a run.

“Dean!” Cas calls after him. Dean can hear his steps but he can’t concentrate on them now because he’s too busy trying to control his own two feet, trying not to run into anything or stumble and smash his face into the pavement. Their hotel is just around the corner, he remembers now, and he quickly crosses the empty street, heart racing from the run and the alcohol and the adrenaline. 

Cas catches up to him in the hallway. Dean looks up at him from where he’s standing with hands on his knees and lungs screaming.

“Dean,” Cas says, completely out of breath.

He looks awful: face flushed, hair windswept, suit rumpled. Dean straightens up and grins at him.

“Hiya,” he says, then runs away again, towards the stairs.

Cas is at his heels. Dean doesn’t get a chance to even take the key out of his pocket because Cas barrels into him, almost pinning him to the wall.

“Get off me!” Dean whispers with a laugh.

“You’re such a terrible human being, Dean Winchester,” Cas pants and he’s still trying to tickle Dean, though his efforts are smaller now, more lazy, like he can’t be bothered to tickle him properly.

Dean swats at his hands. “Get off, Castiel Milton.”

Cas swats back. “You pushed me first.”

“So what.” Dean can’t control his hands. They keep sneaking up and back to Cas, punching his shoulders and tapping against his chest and pushing away his hands.

“So that wasn’t really nice.” Cas narrows his eyes at him.

“ _You’re_ not really nice,” Dean parrots.

“You’re ridiculous.” Cas pokes his chest.

“Oh, _now_ you can say it.” Dean laughs. His head is kind of dizzy and it’s not from the alcohol or running.

“I can say _everything_ ,” Cas emphasises.

“Yeah, right.”

“Preliminary. Loquacious. Sanctimonious,” Cas rumbles.

Dean smirks. “Say ‘bullshit’.”

Cas glares at him. “No,” he says and then his fingers curl around Dean’s tie.

Dean thinks he’s having a heart attack.

Cas isn’t moving, just looking at him, his damn hand still holding Dean’s tie and slowly pulling him closer. Dean goes willingly, knees weak, breath heavy.

He parts his mouth even before they start kissing, and when their lips meet, it’s hot, hungry, and filthy. Dean gasps into Cas’ mouth and Cas sneaks his tongue inside Dean’s, moaning quietly. Dean’s hands find Cas’ hips and grip him tight, pulling closer and kissing harder. Cas tugs at Dean’s hair and Dean moans out loud.

The sound is what breaks the spell. Dean’s stumbling back in the middle of what seems like their second kiss — though it kind of melted into the first, all lips and tongues and that delicious, wet, warm feeling of having someone’s mouth on yours. 

“I—” Dean stares at Cas. He can’t believe they just did that. Why did they do that? “I’m still drunk. Sorry. Didn’t mean to do that.” He really didn’t. He has no idea why they just did that but he’s sure he didn’t mean it. He’s _sure_. 

“Dean…” Cas says, and his voice is shocked, just as his face, and that’s all the confirmation Dean needs. Yes, Cas has no idea what’s just happened, too. It’s good. All’s good.

“Seriously. Sorry. Let’s just… Not… Uh. Let’s just go inside. I didn’t, uh.” 

Fuck, he’s breathing too hard and Cas’ lips are red and so fucking kissable, but Dean isn’t thinking about them because he can’t because that would mean _something_ , and Dean doesn’t want it to mean _anything_.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says again. 

He _didn’t_.

Cas swallows visibly. “I’m still drunk,” he says weakly.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too! Fuck. That was crazy. Sorry.” Dean actually laughs, but he can hear it sounds forced. Hopefully Cas doesn’t. 

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Cas says.

He’s moving before Dean can say anything else. He’s probably tired of hearing Dean excuse himself, because he breezes past Dean, opens the door to their room, and storms inside without another look at Dean.

Fuck. He’s probably pissed now. 

Dean stalks inside, closes the door, kicks off his shoes. Cas is already in the bathroom, so Dean makes quick work of stripping off his suit and pulling his sleep shirt on. His bed is still unmade from earlier, so he burrows into it, covers himself with the comforter, and squeezes his eyes, trying not to think about anything. It’s hard, though, because his lips are still tingling from the kiss.

The worst thing is that he _knows_ he’s not drunk at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER 8**

_30 October - 27 November 2008_

Sam is poking at an enormous pumpkin someone has brought into the war room and dropped in the middle of the map table when the doors upstairs open and close noisily.

“Hey!” he calls, looking up and expecting to see his brother and Castiel. He narrows his eyes when he only sees Cas. “Where’s Dean?”

“Gone,” Castiel says. He’s stomping down the stairs, his bag thrown over his shoulder, coat hanging open. He looks tired.

“He didn’t wanna come in?” Sam asks, brows raised.

“I don’t know. I guess if he wanted to, he would be here,” Castiel mutters, shoving past Sam without as much as a glance his way.

“Hey.” Sam reaches out and grabs his arm. “You okay? What happened?”

Castiel stops and glares at him over his shoulder. “You know what happened. I texted you.”

“You texted me about getting rid of the ghost and healing Dean. What happened next?”

“Nothing.” Castiel moves again, pulls himself free of Sam’s grip. “We slept at the hotel and drove back here.”

“So why Dean’s not here?”

“For God’s sake, Sam!” Castiel barks at him. Sam recoils, surprised. “I don’t know! Ask your brother if you want answers.”

Sam takes a step back. “Uh. Sorry. I didn’t want to—”

Castiel must see the confusion on his face because he lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to lash out at you.” He looks up at him; his eyes are red-rimmed and a bit dull. 

“That’s okay, man,” Sam says awkwardly. “You must be exhausted. I guess we can talk in the morning.”

Cas sighs. “Yes. Thank you.”

When he turns and walks away, Sam calls after him, “Glad you’re okay!” and then goes back to inspecting all the pumpkins.

***

They don’t really talk in the morning. Sam waits for Castiel in the kitchen, slurping coffee and trying to steal as many pumpkin cupcakes as he possibly can (Ellen spends a few hours baking them so that there’s enough for everyone). Cas takes his time, though, and doesn’t come out of his bedroom until noon. By that time Sam has already moved into the library with Charlie and Eileen (and pumpkin spiced coffees — Ellen goes crazy on Halloween, but no one’s complaining). Sam waves at Cas when he sees him shuffle through the war room and into the kitchen, but Cas barely acknowledges him.

“Is he okay?” Eileen asks out loud.

Sam shrugs. “I’m not sure. He came back yesterday without Dean and wouldn’t talk to me.”

Charlie munches on her cupcake. “Maybe they fought again,” she mumbles.

Sam relays her words to Eileen, since she couldn’t see it with Charlie’s face full of cupcake. Eileen smiles at him and waves at Charlie’s apologetic look.

“I thought you said they were getting better,” she says.

“It looked like it,” Sam says. “But you know my brother.”

“Maybe it was Cas’ fault this time,” Charlie wonders.

“Or both of them,” Eileen adds.

***

Sam is in the middle of researching wraiths for Caesar and Jesse when it occurs to him to just call Dean.

“What,” his brother growls instead of greeting and Sam already knows he’s not going to learn anything.

“Hello to you to,” he says anyway. “Where are you?”

“Umm.” There’s some shuffling and muffled voices as if Dean was somewhere with people and lots of newspapers. Maybe he’s in a diner. “Ohio.”

“You’re in _Ohio_?” Sam asks, incredulous. “Already?”

“I’ve got a case,” Dean grumbles.

“Did you drive there all night? After driving for 10 hours straight from Colorado?”

“There was a case, Sam,” Dean repeats, irritated. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t? Yes, you did! You could have come back to the bunker and let us find someone to take care of it.” Sam rubs a hand over his forehead. Sometimes he can’t believe _he’s_ the younger brother. “You’ve _just_ solved one case.”

“It was important,” Dean says, sounding distracted. “And I’m fine. Not even tired.”

“Yeah, why don’t I believe you?” 

“Maybe because you always think the worst of me, Sam,” Dean hisses.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t think I can handle anything. I’ve been doing this my whole life, Sam. I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“I’m not babysitting you,” Sam says. He knows he sounds annoyed and it’s making Dean even more angry. “I’m just trying to understand what happened in Colorado.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then, “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, Dean.” Sam stands up and starts wandering up and down the library, fingers brushing the old books. “Maybe that you didn’t even come in after you dropped Castiel off at the bunker.”

“I had a case—”

Sam ignores him. “And maybe that Cas looks like you’ve killed his favourite guinea pig and he barely said a word after he came back yesterday. _And_ he was kinda mean to me.”

Dean is quiet for a few more seconds. Sam knows he’s hit a sore spot.

“I’m not responsible for how Cas is feeling,” Dean grumbles.

“But clearly something happened between you two. Did you fight again? He sounded okay on the phone.”

“We— Yeah, Sam. He was annoying and I was an asshole. Same old,” Dean grits through his teeth.

“What did you—”

“Sorry, Sam,” Dean interrupts him. “I gotta go question the witness. Bye.”

Dean hangs up. Sam is left staring at his phone with a frown.

***

It’s Halloween and everyone is in a festive mood, especially with all the baked goods and decorations and the promise of horror movies marathon this evening. 

Well, _almost_ everyone.

Cas keeps skulking around the bunker for the whole day, still in his pyjamas, as if he couldn’t be bothered to change into normal clothes. No one demands anything of him, though, since he just came back from a case, and the usual Men of Letters business is a bit slow today anyway, due to Halloween. Sam sees Hannah and Gadreel talking with him during dinner, but they don’t look particularly satisfied with the conversation so he doesn’t even try asking.

They choose Ghostbusters, along with the new remake, and pile into one of the free rooms near the kitchen. Sam and Charlie turned it into a living room slash movie room in the first month they started living in the bunker. There’s a big, comfortable couch in the middle of the room, surrounded by several mismatched armchairs, an old papasan chair, two bean bags, and lots of blankets and pillows. Sam loves it and he often finds himself sitting there, enjoying coffee and quiet even without turning on the big screen TV situated on one of the bare walls.

Well, the walls aren’t bare anymore, actually. Sam wouldn’t mind them, really, but Pamela insisted on decorating the room to ‘give it a soul’, or something similarly ridiculous. Charlie helped, although all she did was add a few posters and small figurines. Ellen bought a few nice smelling candles and put them all up on the small shelves on the walls.

It’s all very homely and comfortable. Dean adores this room and often disappears for hours to marathon TV shows with Charlie. He didn’t really do any of that while he was here with a broken leg, but maybe Sam just wasn’t paying attention.

He should be here now, Sam thinks as he mixes the hot chocolate in the kitchen. He can hear his friends from the room, laughing and discussing horror movies. Dean never liked celebrating Halloween in the traditional way, but he joined them last year when they watched terrible slasher films until dawn and he seemed to like it. He also loves Ghostbusters and he hasn’t seen the new remake yet, as far as Sam knows…

Castiel pads quietly into the kitchen just as Sam is pouring the hot chocolate.

“Hey, man,” Sam greets, smiling. “You want some?”

“No, thank you,” Cas says, his head deep in the tea cupboard.

“Okay.” Sam puts the mugs onto a tray. “Should we wait for you to start the movie?”

Castiel glances at him over a box of orange sencha. “No, go on without me.”

“We don’t want you to miss the beginning,” Sam explains. “It’s okay, we can wait.”

“I’m not joining you,” Castiel says and turns away from him to reach for the kettle. 

“What?” Sam frowns. “But we’re all there. And it’s Halloween.”

“I’m not really in the mood for celebrating,” Cas murmurs.

Sam sighs heavily and rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “Listen, Cas… I understand if you don’t want to join us. It’s okay. But, um… You know you can talk to us, right?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, just twirls the string connected to his tea bag between his fingers. 

“If something bad happens, you’ve got us, okay?”

“Nothing bad happened,” Cas says.

“I know. Okay? But in case it does…”

“Really, Sam.” The water boils and Castiel reaches for the kettle. He stops with a pout, realising he needs to wait for the water to cool down a bit to make green tea. Sam almost grins at the face he makes. “I know. But I’m fine.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re clearly not. Listen, Dean can be a total jerk sometimes. You should just ignore him.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Cas says darkly.

“Umm.” Sam didn’t expect him to agree so easily. “Good. You shouldn’t let anything he says get to you. Because it was something he said, wasn’t it? Was he a complete jerk?”

Castiel stays quiet again.

“I bet he lashed out at you after you killed the spirit,” Sam guesses. “Was he angry that you saw him freak out?”

Castiel shrugs, then decides the water’s cool enough for his tea.

“Dean’s allergic to feelings.” Sam chuckles. “He hates when people make him talk about feelings, so he probably hated himself _and_ the ghost but transferred it onto you. You should totally just forget whatever he might have said.”

Cas takes his mug into his hands and sends Sam a tired look. “It’s already forgotten.”

He stalks out of the kitchen, then, and soon Charlie is calling Sam from the TV room, so he grabs the tray with the hot chocolate and rushes to join his friends.

***

Over the course of the next month, almost up until Thanksgiving, Sam keeps getting messages from Dean about possible cases and new hunts and doesn’t see him at all. Dean sounds better, though, and he usually joins other hunters, so Sam mostly leaves him be. He’s quite busy at the bunker, anyway, organising the old files, looking for cases, acquiring more and more knowledge.

Castiel goes back to his usual self soon after coming back from the buruburu hunt, too. He’s never been one for socialising too often and even though he has friends and family in the bunker, he seems used to keeping to himself and enjoying the solitude. Sam sees him working quietly in the library, reading in the TV room, going out to tend to his garden, and even, on a few occasions, trying his hand at cooking again (he keeps to small and easy stuff that’s difficult to mess up and everyone at the bunker is really grateful). 

Sam also manages to convert Castiel to jogging. He doesn’t mind running on his own, but it’s always nice to have some company. He tried to convince Charlie, but she likes sleeping in too much and there’s not much time for running during the day. Gadreel runs with Sam sometimes, but he’s got some problems with his knee, so it doesn’t happen often. 

At first, Cas doesn’t seem persuaded. Sam meets him in the kitchen one day, while everyone’s still asleep; he looks a bit pale and miserable at this hour in the morning. Sam doesn’t hesitate before inviting him along. Cas squints for a while, but then shrugs and goes to his bedroom to change. He’s dead on his feet by the time they come back, but he’s smiling. 

He continues to join Sam every morning after that, even though he’s terribly grumpy and unresponsive before they leave the bunker. Clear autumn air seems to have a miraculous effect on him every time they run, and running cheers him up better than any number of mugs of coffee could.

Sam is satisfied.

By some mutual silent agreement, they don’t really talk about Dean or the old case. Castiel used to be curious about Dean before they met while hunting the wendigo, and even after that, when Dean was staying at the bunker. Right now, though, he doesn’t even mention Dean’s name and ignores the conversation whenever it starts to veer towards him. Sam’s a bit disappointed — he hoped maybe they would get along better. Castiel is a great friend, and Dean is the best brother, and it would be great if they liked each other, too. Maybe then Dean would visit more often and Cas would find more reasons to join random socialising at the bunker. 

They’re both adults, though, both old enough to choose their own friends. Sam is not going to intervene, not now, not ever.

***

Three days before Thanksgiving, Sam finds a case.

It’s been a while since he was out hunting, and the case probably includes vengeful spirits in one of their old high schools in Fairfax, Indiana, so Sam calls Dean and asks him to pick him up as soon as possible.

He doesn’t think Dean has ever sounded happier.

“You sure you’re still good to hunt, slacker?” Dean asks with a grin when Sam gets into the Impala. He also smacks him hard in the middle of his chest.

Sam glares. “I’m running every morning. Yes, Dean, I’m still good to hunt. Probably more than you.”

“I don’t know about it,” Dean says. “I’m not the one living on Ellen’s cooking.”

“Well, you probably just eat greasy food and drink terrible coffee.”

“Still better than what some of you cook in there,” Dean says, pointing to the bunker. He doesn’t mention Castiel, but Sam is sure he meant him. 

“We had potato salad yesterday,” Sam says with a smirk. “It was really good.”

“Whatever.” Dean turns his face away from him and starts the engine.

They visit the hospital to talk with the suspect, a young student called Taylor who killed her classmate, then drive over to the school to investigate. Dean seems to have fun posing as a substitute coach and Sam stores the image of him in those shorts in his mind to share with everyone when they come back to the bunker. The case turns out to be more nostalgic than Sam has expected — they burn the remains of one of his friends from school, then fight with another ghost of one of the bullies, Dirk, who seems to have a personal vendetta against Sam. They’re both in sour moods when they’re done — Dean never seemed to like high school, especially not this one — but soon enough they’re on the road back to Kansas and it feels just like it used to a few years ago.

“Do you ever miss it?” Dean asks, glancing at him from the passenger seat. It’s barely five in the afternoon, but it’s already getting dark, and Dean’s face is illuminated by the light on the dashboard.

“What? The hunting?” Sam sighs. “Of course. Why else would I join you?”

“I don’t know.” Dean taps his fingers against the wheel. “Maybe you’re just checkin’ on me.”

“Do I need to be checking on you?” 

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’m fine, Sam. Really.”

Sam looks at him again, thoughtful. Dean is almost never completely fine — there’s always something gnawing at him, making him sad or angry or guilty. Sam knows Dean had a hard time when he decided to find the bunker and stop hunting for a while, but he really hoped Dean would get better. He thought he did, that he accepted Sam’s decision… But then Dean turned away and left to find Cassie.

At first, Sam was glad — he thought it would do Dean good to be with someone who cared about him, and to have something else to think about. But Dean stopped hunting altogether and he barely talked to Sam, and when he did — he didn’t sound happy. He sounded as if someone was forcing him to pretend to live a normal life. He sounded paranoid, too, always thinking about possible monsters attacking them and making sure every devil’s trap and every line of salt was in place at all times. 

Sam wanted Dean to have a life, but he knew Dean could never live without hunting for too long. So when Cassie decided enough was enough and that she couldn’t live with a man who wasn’t really ready to be a full-time husband, Dean left and went back to hunting with twice as much energy.

It wasn’t good for him, though. It was hunting monster after monster, chasing after every possible lead, ignoring Sam’s calls. It was a few months of not seeing Dean at all because he was always after something, always keeping busy. It was refusing to work with anyone, it was going after monsters alone, it was verging on suicidal.

Sam was so relieved that all the wendigo did was break Dean’s leg.

He seems better now, Sam thinks, still looking at his brother, humming Led Zeppelin under his breath and taking a mile after a mile. He’s still hunting a lot, but that month in the bunker must have taken his mind off that unhealthy obsession with killing whatever stood on his path.

They arrive at the bunker around seven in the evening. Sam grins at Dean.

“I hope they left us something to eat,” he says and starts to get out of the car.

“You’ll be fine,” Dean says.

Sam freezes. “You’re not coming?” he asks, turning to look at him. When Dean makes a face and shrugs, Sam nearly gasps. “Dean, it’s Thanksgiving.”

“And it’s been a great day,” Dean says. He shrugs again. “But I already have plans.”

“Plans? What plans?” Sam frowns. “Are you going hunting? _Again?_ ”

Dean scoffs. “No.”

“Dean.”

“Sam, I’m not going hunting. We’ve _just_ killed two ghosts.” Dean turns away, so that his face is almost completely hidden in the dark. “I said, I’ve got other plans.”

“You can at least come in for a while,” Sam says, exasperated. He feels as if Dean is slipping through his fingers again. “I’m sure everyone would be happy to see you.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean murmurs.

“Look. Just come in. Stay the night. Where are you going to sleep, anyway?”

Dean looks at him then and wriggles his eyebrows with a stupid grin. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Are you going to get drunk in a crappy bar?”

“And what if I am?”

“Dean. Please, come in.”

“I said no, Sam. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Is it because of Castiel?” Sam asks finally, getting more and more annoyed. 

Dean glares at him. “What about him?”

“Well, you obviously had a fight and now you don’t even want to _come home_ because of it. It’s getting ridiculous.”

“Who told you we had a fight?” Dean asks. His voice is dull.

“Well, what else? You’re both so pissed at each other. Cas was fuming for days after he came back.”

Dean squares his shoulders. “It’s not about him. I just have other plans.”

Sam grits his teeth. “And do they involve alcohol?”

“Whatever, Sam. Just get out,” Dean says in a bored voice, leans over, and opens his door for him. “Say hi to everyone for me.”

Sam huffs, then gets out. “Whatever,” he mutters angrily.

Before he can slam the door, Dean leans over again and looks up at him, face apologetic. “I’m sorry, Sam. Okay? I swear I’m fine. I just… I need to be alone tonight.”

“Why?”

“Just…” Dean swallows, looks down. He starts fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. “It’s kinda hard, after last year.”

Oh. Last year Dean was still with Cassie. Just before she left him, just before he became unhappy again.

“Don’t you think it would be better to spend it with your family then?” Sam asks softly.

“There’re too many people in there,” Dean murmurs. “I… I swear I’ll visit soon. Okay?”

Sam lets out a sigh. “Okay. Will you call me tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Dean says and sends him a smirk. 

“Dean. Call me tomorrow,” Sam says. When Dean nods, he adds, “And you’re spending Christmas with us. Don’t even think about bailing.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but nods again. He looks as if he is smiling again, but he’s moved back to his own seat and Sam can’t really see him in the dark.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Sam,” Dean murmurs, and as soon as Sam closes the door, he drives away.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 9**

_21-24 December 2008_

Castiel hasn’t seen Dean in almost two months. It’s actually a well-known fact because, apart from Sam, no one in the bunker has seen Dean in almost two months. At first, they tried to ask Castiel about the reason for it — after all, he was the one who hunted with him. Castiel wasn’t in the mood for explaining or even talking to anyone for those first days after coming back from Colorado. He was angry — at Dean, at himself, at many things — and he was a bit miserable.

Not because Dean kissed him (or was it Castiel who kissed Dean? Castiel has no idea who initiated the kiss), but because they stopped talking altogether after that night.

They communicated with glances and grunts the morning after the kiss, and spent the entire ride to the bunker in complete silence. Castiel had no idea what to think. Was Dean embarrassed? Was he upset? Furious? Guilty? He knew the easiest way to discover how Dean felt was to try to talk to him, but he couldn’t do it. Every time he opened his mouth to say something, he could see Dean’s terrified face after they pulled away from each other in the hallway of the hotel. He could hear Dean’s laugh and his excuses. He didn’t want to hear it again.

And so he sulked for a few days. He decided he was justified, at least for some time. No one needed to know why he sulked, but he revelled in it.

It became exhausting after some time, though. Dean wasn’t coming back and being angry and hurt after one drunken kiss wasn’t reasonable behaviour at all. 

Castiel took up running with Sam. He came back to all of his duties and tried to do twice as much as he used to on some days, just to have something to do with his time. He found cases, filled journals with new knowledge, organised the library. He wandered around the bunker, trying to draw a map of the entire building (he still hasn’t managed to finish it). He went back to cooking — with small, slow steps and the help of Ellen and other more advanced cooks. 

A few days before Christmas, he finds an interesting article about an endangered species of a plant that’s supposed to have healing qualities — or at least that’s what some people ages ago believed in — and he convinces Sam to let him go and do more research. He gathers it would be amazing to find out more about the plant and maybe, in the future, to lay his hands on a seed and try growing it in his garden. He doesn’t actually need Sam’s permission, but it’s close to the holidays and there’s a lot to do at the bunker — everyone has been assigned another set of special holiday duties like shopping for Christmas decorations or decorating the tree or cooking. The bunker is going to be full of people soon and Castiel knows it would be good for him to get out just for a while.

The research turns out to be fascinating, but really small. All he managed to find for now was some antiquated research — in a book with only one third of a chapter devoted to the plant in question. He expected to be back right on Christmas day, but he parks his car near the bunker two days before the holidays.

He gets out and his heart falls down to his stomach when he notices the black Impala parked on the other side of the road.

Dean is back.

Castiel tries to stop his heart from fluttering helplessly in his chest at the thought of seeing Dean again. Will they even talk this time at all? Or will they ruin everyone’s Christmas with their mutual silent treatment? He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and goes home.

The bunker smells like gingerbread and honey, and there’s loud Christmas music coming from everywhere when Castiel steps down to the war room. The rail by the stairs is decorated with Christmas lights and there’s a tiny pine tree standing in the middle of the map table. Castiel smiles when he sees it.

His smile fades when he meets Dean’s eyes.

He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, clearly about to go out. There’s a cookie in his hand and he’s wearing a nice red shirt over a black tee with a big red letters over it. He’s smiling, too, but not at Castiel.

“What are you doing here?” he asks as his smile falters.

A thought occurs to Castiel while he’s still standing on the stairs. Was Dean waiting for Castiel to be out of the bunker to visit? Maybe he didn’t even plan to see him, maybe he wanted to leave just before Castiel was due to come back. After all, he wasn’t supposed to be back for the next two days and everyone at the bunker knew it.

He feels his hands turn into loose fists. 

“I live here,” he says, voice cool.

Dean doesn’t have time to respond — he just sends Castiel an unhappy look — because Charlie comes out of the kitchen and pushes Dean out of her way.

“Cas?” she asks when she sees him. She breaks out in a grin. “Hey! You’re back!”

“I’m back,” Castiel says and comes down the rest of the stairs. “Hello.”

“Guys, our little gardener is back!” Charlie yells over her shoulder. There’s a loud cheering coming from the kitchen. 

Castiel smiles, even though he can see Dean mouthing Charlie’s words in confusion.

“How was your trip?” Charlie asks, moves past Dean, and walks over to Castiel.

“Great, thank you, Charlie.”

“Hope your research was worth anything.”

“I think it was, yes.”

“Did you bring me something?” Charlie bats her eyelashes at him.

Castiel frowns. “Um. No. Sorry.”

“No? Do you have Christmas gifts for anyone?” Castiel doesn’t know why, but she starts hopping up and down, excitedly.

“Not really…?”

“Yay! Great! Me neither, we can go gift shopping together!” She claps her hands, then turns to Dean, but he’s already gone. Castiel didn’t really see him go, too wrapped up in Charlie’s friendliness. 

“Oh. That’s actually a good idea,” Castiel says. 

“Awesome. Maybe Claire will join us.”

“Claire?”

“Yeah.” Charlie catches his arm and tugs him happily towards the kitchen. “She’s coming here soon with sheriff Jody and sheriff Donna. They’re kind of her adoptive moms.”

Castiel has heard about the sheriffs, but not about their daughter. He smiles anyway, warmed by the way Charlie seems genuinely happy to see him again.

Such a contrast to the cold way Dean treated him.

Dean is back in the kitchen, unfortunately, talking with a short beautiful blonde woman. Castiel can’t help but smile when he sees her.

“Cas, hiya!” Jo says with a grin when she spots him.

Castiel is pleasantly surprised when Jo jogs over to catch him in a tight hug. They don’t know each other really well, but they did get blind drunk one night after Jo came back from a successful hunt and Ellen decided to open her precious whisky collection.

He notices the expression on Dean’s face above Jo’s blond head — he seems surprised, but not quite in a negative way. Their eyes meet for a moment, but then Dean looks away.

Castiel squeezes Jo a little bit tighter.

“How are you, Jo?” he asks when they pull apart.

Jo grins at him. “I hunted a werewolf all by myself,” she boasts.

Castiel frowns. “And why are you hunting all by yourself?”

Jo hits him in the arm. “Shut up! You sound just like my mom.” When Castiel smiles down at her again, she shakes her head and smiles back. “We should celebrate.”

Castiel sees her wriggle her eyebrows and lets out a quiet groan. “Jo, no.”

Jo bursts out laughing. “Come on, you wussy! It’ll be fun. The guys can join us!”

“It wasn’t fun last time,” Castiel mutters and sneaks another glance at Dean. Jo is probably talking about drinking with him and Castiel isn’t sure he wants to repeat that particular pastime.

He’s saved by Ellen, who comes into the kitchen to yell at Jo for leaving an empty plate in the library. Jo yells too, but goes out to bring it back, Ellen right behind her. When Castiel looks away from their retreating forms, he notices he’s alone with Dean in the kitchen.

“I didn’t know you knew Jo,” Dean says, matter-of-fact.

Castiel levels him with a look. “I do live here, Dean, just as I said. Ellen does, too. Jo tends to visit her mother sometimes.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound harsh or accusatory, but it does anyway. Dean winces and looks away.

Castiel realises he’s still in his coat and holding his travel bag, so without another word, he walks out and heads towards his bedroom.

***

“So, Castiel,” Claire says, eyeing him up and down while he browses through the bookshelf, “what’s your story?”

He looks away from the cover of _Wuthering Heights_ and glances at her. She’s young, maybe seventeen years old, with long light hair, heavy makeup, and a bad attitude. Castiel finds her frustrating and annoyingly likeable. He thinks she must be taking interest in him, too, because she’s been pestering him since the minute they met.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“What do you mean what do I mean?” Claire parrots. “I mean, what’s your story.”

“I don’t have a story,” Castiel responds, pretending to be bored by her inquiries. “I’m not a book, Claire.”

“Oh, really? You look like one. What with that mysterious name and mysterious coat and mysterious behavior. You could be on a cover.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. “How is my behaviour mysterious?” 

“You lurk,” Claire says. “You live in the bunker but you walk around like you’re scared something will eat you when it notices you.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows, impressed. She’s been in Lebanon for one day and she’s already figuring him out. 

She’s right, though: he does lurk. He’s been trying to avoid Dean but despite the fact that the bunker seems huge and their rooms aren’t that close, they keep stumbling upon each other.

It’s even worse, actually, because Dean is almost always accompanied by the hunter friend he’s brought along, Benny. Benny is loud, sarcastic, and doesn’t seem to like Castiel very much.

“I don’t lurk,” he says out loud. He decides on a book for Hannah — one of Jane Austen’s romances, she’s always liked the classics — and turns to fully face Claire. “Are you ready?”

“Since yesterday,” she says and rolls her eyes. She’s definitely doing that too often. “I was just waiting for you, old man.”

Castiel smiles warmly and she sticks her tongue out at him.

They’re about to leave the bookshop — Charlie is on the other side of the road, buying gifts at Walmart — when something catches Castiel’s eye and he stops. There’s a book on one of the displays, recently published, and the title font looks exactly like the one on Dean’s black t-shirt from yesterday.

“ _When Giants Walked the Earth: A Biography of Led Zeppelin_ ,” Claire reads aloud, looking over his shoulder. “You don’t seem like a classic rock kinda guy,” she says and eyes him suspiciously.

Castiel doesn’t even remember taking the book into his hands, but now he’s gripping it, looking down at the dark cover. There’s a sticker on it, saying it’s ‘one of the best Led Zep biographies out there!!!’. Castiel bites his lip, thinking. Would Dean even accept the gift? Would it feel like an apology? Castiel doesn’t think he wants to apologise, but if that would help ease his relationship with Dean, maybe he should risk it. There’s really nothing to lose right now, is there?

“Oh, just do it,” Claire groans and rolls her eyes.

Castiel buys it.

***

They send Castiel to decorate the outside of the bunker with Christmas lights and tell Dean to go with him. He doesn’t wait to see Dean’s reaction and goes out without a word. 

He’s in the middle of disentangling the lights when Dean joins him and grabs the other end of the string. 

“Slower,” Dean murmurs, his breath coming out in a cloud of warmth. “You’re gonna mess it up again.”

“I won’t,” Castiel says. 

“You already did.” Dean points to a small bundle of lights, then pulls it out of Castiel’s hands. “See? You gotta do it slow.”

Castiel licks his lips. It’s a bit cold, now that it’s dark, and he left his coat inside. Dean is only wearing a green plaid shirt, so he must be quite cold, too. They’re standing a few feet apart.

“You can hang the wreath,” Dean says. His voice stays quiet and calm. They don’t look at each other.

“I want to hang the lights.”

“Okay.” Dean reaches out and hands Castiel one end of the string. “Wrap it around the rail. No, a bit lower, we’ve got enough to cover it all. Okay. Great.”

They work together easily, almost without words, and entirely without meeting each other’s eyes. Dean asks Castiel to hold a string against the rail while he tapes it carefully, his warmth coming off his body in waves and making Castiel lightheaded. They don’t touch, but their hands keep coming close enough to brush. Dean smells like cinnamon. 

When they’re done, Castiel hangs the small evergreen wreath on the massive door to the bunker and Dean reaches to straighten it. Their shoulders touch. Castiel’s fingertips buzz.

“You wanna fire it up?” Dean asks after a moment.

Castiel goes back to the rail and bends to find a plug. The lights burst into life with all colours of the rainbow. When Castiel looks up through the jumble of lights, he catches Dean’s eyes and Dean doesn’t look away.

“So, uh.” Dean bites down on his lip. “How’ve you been?”

Castiel straightens up and stays quiet for a moment. Dean squirms under his gaze and finally looks away. There’s a hint of red on his face, but Castiel thinks it’s from the cold.

“Fine,” Castiel finally says. Something’s happening in his chest and he has to fight a smile that threatens to appear on his face. “What about you?”

Dean’s eyes glint with the colourful lights between them. “Good. Better than the last time we saw each other,” he jokes, but his face falls when he sees Castiel’s expression. “I mean. The ghost sickness. You know.”

Castiel lets his gaze fall down to the ground, slowly. Well, at least they’re talking. 

“I know,” he says. “It’s cold. I’m going back.”

“Sure,” Dean says, nodding, then opens the door and holds it for Castiel to go inside. 

They go their own ways when they reach the war room, Dean to the kitchen where they can hear Benny, and Castiel to the library, joining Jody, Donna, and Sam. It’s at least half the distance they used to stay at before, with Castiel hiding in his bedroom, so he allows himself a small smile.

***

Everyone stays up late and Dean and Castiel end up sitting across from each other by one of the tables in the library. There’s pie and hot chocolate and tea — Ellen is saving the rest of the food for tomorrow and tonight they just sit around, talking and listening to terrible Christmas music.

“Who’s playing this shit?” Dean asks after some time.

Charlie smiles sweetly at him and points to the tablet in front of her.

“Don’t you have any classic rock Christmas songs?” Dean demands.

Everyone starts shushing him and Castiel feels Claire’s eyes on him. He doesn’t look at her, just hides a smile in his mug.

Benny is sitting beside Dean. They seem close, but now Castiel notices that they behave similarly to the way Dean and Sam behave: like brothers. Benny teases Dean mercilessly — about _everything_ — and Dean is almost too rude in response, but Benny always just laughs loudly and teases him more.

They drink eggnog — lots of it. Ellen is trying to save some for tomorrow, but everyone keeps demanding more and she is not the one to refuse anyone food or drink. Castiel’s head is pleasantly groggy and he can’t seem to stop his eyes from finding Dean, even when Dean looks back. _Especially_ when Dean looks back.

Most of them disperse right before midnight. Castiel yawns, stands up, and shuffles out of the library. When he casts one last glance over his shoulder, at Dean and Benny and Charlie still sitting at the table, Dean meets his eyes and smiles.

Castiel feels warm when he enters his bedroom. His body is pliant and full of liquor and he keeps licking his lips and tasting the sweetness on them. His eyes slide closed when he sits down on the bed and he smiles to himself.

When he falls back onto the mattress, something hard pokes into his back. He sits up again and looks down at the book he bought for Dean.

He knows Dean is still in the library, so he doesn’t hesitate before grabbing the gift and sneaking out of his room. He’s never been to Dean’s bedroom, but he knows the number — 11. It takes him a few minutes to find it, but then he quickly slides inside and closes the door behind him.

It’s dark, but he doesn’t turn on the light. Instead, he carefully walks around the room, waiting for his eyes to get used to the darkness. He recognises a bed, a desk, a closet. He doesn’t know where to put the book. Should he hide it and risk Dean never actually finding it? Should he just leave it in plain sight, in the middle of the bed, for example, or on the desk? Should he sign it? Would Dean know who gave it to him even if he didn’t sign it?

He’s still standing in the middle of the room, the book against his chest, when the door behind his back open and someone comes inside.

Castiel whirls around to face Dean.

“Cas?” Dean gasps. “What are you doing here?”

Castiel can feel his cheeks redden and he’s grateful that Dean didn’t turn on the light.

“I’m sorry,” he rushes. “I just… Wanted to…” He looks down at the book in his hands and shoves it into Dean’s chest without meeting his eyes.

“What—”

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Castiel says quietly.

“Dude,” Dean murmurs. “It’s for me?”

Castiel looks up and sends him a wry look even though he knows Dean can’t see it.

“Uh. Thanks, Cas. I… I don’t have anything for you,” Dean says.

“It’s okay. I just saw it and thought of you. I hope it’s a good book.”

Dean probably can’t even see the cover. “I’m sure it is.”

“It’s about Led Zeppelin,” Castiel informs him.

“What! Really?” 

“Yes. A biography.”

“Dude! Thanks. Really. I feel really stupid now.”

“Don’t.” Castiel takes a step forward to move past Dean, but the alcohol must be still working on him because he bumps right into Dean instead. “Oh no. Sorry.”

Dean huffs a laugh and his breath brushes against Castiel’s neck. “Are you drunk?”

“You’re drunk, too,” Castiel whispers.

“But I’m not walking into you.” Dean laughs and knocks his shoulder against Castiel’s.

Castiel wants to melt against him, push his nose into his neck, and breathe him in, the cinnamon, the warmth, the alcohol. He wants to shove him against the wall and kiss the sweetness off his lips and find it deep in his mouth. He wants to touch Dean’s chest and feel his heat underneath his fingers. He _wants_.

But they both know how it ends if they do any of that now, so Castiel takes a step back, breathes in, and passes Dean on the way to the door.

“Goodnight, Dean,” he says and walks out without waiting for an answer.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER 10**

_25 December 2008_

Last Christmas, Dean woke up with Cassie in his arms, sound asleep, snoring softly into his chest. He brought her to consciousness with small kisses all over her face and shoulders and chest and they made love with the snow falling gently behind Cassie’s light curtains.

Two weeks later, she said she was tired of living this kind of life — by which she meant a safe, careful life without hunting but with enough common sense to know what lurks in the dark. Then she left.

Or rather, she told _him_ to leave because they were staying at her apartment.

Dean tries not to think about it too much when he wakes up at the bunker on Christmas morning, but it’s not that easy. He heaves himself off the bed, head woozy from all the eggnog. He smacks his lips, tasting the sour flavour of day-old alcohol. He must have forgotten to brush his teeth yesterday. He blames Cas.

…Cas.

Isn’t that weird, he thinks, staring at the book on the bedside table, that their names are so similar? Cassie, the one who broke his heart, twice, and wouldn’t accept him the way he was. Cas, the one who keeps sneaking into his head and his thoughts and his heart, the one who _could_ probably accept him, but Dean is too scared to even give him that chance. 

Dean knows he’s not relationship material. He’s had maybe three serious girlfriends in twenty nine years of his life — Robin (and it didn’t even lasted all that long, but she _was_ his first kiss) and then Cassie, twice. He’s good at keeping his distance — emotional distance, that is. He’s terrible at keeping physical distance of any kind, which often leads to waking up in various beds with various girls or guys. Or both. He’s not that picky.

He takes the book Cas gave him into his hands and slides a finger over the cover. It’s so pretty, all black and red, and there’s Jimmy Page there, too, obviously. Cas said he’d seen it and thought of him. And he touched him with his chest and with his hands over Dean’s bicep, though Dean doesn’t think it was entirely conscious. He seemed quite out of it.

Dean wanted to touch his lips again so bad.

He wonders how often Cas thinks about their kiss. Whether he thinks of doing it again. Whether he touches himself and imagines it’s Dean’s hand.

Dean knows _he_ does. (It’s Cas’ hand, though. Cas’ mouth. Cas’ everything.)

He decides to get out of his bedroom before he loses his mind. The bunker is quiet, compared to last night. Everyone must be nursing a similarly dull pain in their heads after all that eggnog.

Eileen is sitting at the kitchen table and eating a slice of Ellen’s pumpkin pie. Dean smiles at her and cuts himself a piece. 

“Is there coffee?” he asks. She doesn’t respond and it takes Dean a good minute to realise she didn’t hear him because he’s standing with his back to her. “Oh my God, Winchester, you’re so fucking dumb,” he mutters and bangs his head against the cupboard. The headache grows stronger.

“Dean?” Sam asks from the doorway. “What are you doing?”

Dean turns around to face him. “Nothing,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

Sam squints at him, but doesn’t say anything, taking his place beside Eileen. He looks fresh and energetic, as if he’s just taken a shower. Maybe he has — Dean’s heard he works out every morning now. 

Dean watches as Sam and Eileen sign at each other for a moment, smiles on their faces, Sam’s hair a total mess and hers done artfully in a high ponytail. They’re wearing matching Christmas sweaters.

Dean smirks. He forgoes coffee, leaves the pie on the cabinet, and snags one of the sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the cabinet handles. (Seriously, who chose those places? No one’s gonna kiss _under_ the cabinet.) He clears his throat.

Sam looks up just when Dean positions his hand over their heads. 

“Merry Christmas, kids,” Dean says. Eileen is looking up at him now, too, so she can see him say it. She also sees the mistletoe in his hands and blinks.

Sam’s face is hilariously pink.

“What are you doing, Dean—” Sam mutters, but Eileen is leaning forward and pressing a kiss against Sam’s cheek before he can finish the sentence.

Dean walks out of the kitchen, feeling satisfied. He’ll come back for coffee later. For now, he decides to take a shower and try to wash out the haziness out of his head.

The bathroom is a big room at the end of the corridor, with three shower heads divided by thin plastic curtains, a toilet, a urinal, two sinks, and a few mirrors. Dean knocks at the door, waits a few seconds, and then opens the door and walks inside. It’s steamy — for a moment he thinks it’s because of Sam’s shower — but then the fog dissipates a little and he notices another person standing in front of the mirror.

“Oh,” Dean says stupidly because it’s Cas, _of course_ _it’s Cas_. He’s standing there in white boxer shorts, a white t-shirt, with a towel thrown around his neck and his hair wet. 

“Dean,” Cas says, surprise in his voice as he turns around to face him.

“Uh, hi. Sorry. I knocked but no one answered,” Dean explains, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Cas says. “It’s okay. I’m almost done.”

“Right.” Dean shuffles his feet and forces his eyes to look somewhere else. The wall looks really interesting all of a sudden. 

“Did you want to take a shower?” Cas asks.

Dean looks back at him and watches as he squeezes some paste onto his toothbrush. 

“Uh. Yeah.”

“All three showers are free.”

“Right.” He’s not going to take a shower while Cas is still here. “I can wait.”

“If you want,” Cas says and pushes the toothbrush into his mouth. He takes his sweet time — if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say he’s doing it on purpose, just to see Dean get more and more uncomfortable. Or maybe to see him give up and start undressing… but that’s just wishful thinking.

“You’ve been running with Sam?” Dean’s traitorous mouth asks after a while.

Cas spits some toothpaste and glances at him. “Yes. It’s actually quite pleasant. I never knew I liked running.”

Dean tries not to stare at the foam on his lips. “Good for you,” he manages to say.

Cas finishes brushing his teeth and spends another minute toweling his hair. He ends up with a massive mess on his head. Dean looks away, his fingers itching to reach out and flatten the damp black locks. 

“All yours,” Cas says, _finally_ , and walks past Dean towards the door. Dean catches a whiff of a fruity shampoo and closes his eyes.

“Thanks,” he says weakly.

“Dean.”

Dean opens his eyes, frowns, and glances over his shoulder at Cas still standing in the doorway. Cas sends him a shy smile.

“Yeah?” Dean prompts.

“I’m…” he starts, then looks down and bites his lip. Dean just stares. “It’s nothing. I just wanted to wish you a merry Christmas.”

Dean can’t help it — he smiles back. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

When he’s finally alone in the bathroom, he almost can’t feel his headache.

***

The image of Cas in the bathroom — his wet curling hair, muscular naked legs, tanned arms, every little fragment of skin he could lay his eyes on — keeps haunting him the entire Christmas day. It’s there in his head when he finally gets breakfast and coffee and chatters happily with Charlie and Jo. It’s there when they join Kevin in the TV room to watch silly holiday movies until late afternoon. He can still see it, with every small detail, when they all gather in the library to eat early Christmas dinner. It doesn’t help that Cas just keeps looking so _attractive_. He’s wearing a light blue button down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, two buttons open at his throat, his pale jeans snug around his hips and thighs. Dean can practically feel himself salivating at the sight — he blames it on all the food at the table in front of him.

He must be a little out of it because he keeps missing Benny’s jokes and Charlie’s nerdy references. They ask him if he’s alright a few times, but he just waves his hand at them and continues stuffing himself with food. They all get a cup or two of eggnog but otherwise keep it light and alcohol-free. When Dean can barely move after the dessert — Ellen has baked _three_ different pies — most of them transfer to the TV room to watch more Christmas comedies on DVD. 

Dean actually dozes off after some time, comfortable in the large armchair he’s snatched for himself. When he looks around again, he notices the lights have been dimmed and the medium-sized Christmas tree in the corner of the room is blinking happily at him. Some people have apparently left the room — Dean can’t see Sam and Eileen anywhere and he smirks to himself. Good for Sam. Jody and Donna are sitting snugly on one side of the couch, but Claire is nowhere to be seen. Benny is snoring quietly in the papasan, and Charlie is simultaneously watching the TV and texting. 

Dean turns his head and catches Castiel’s eyes. He and Hannah are squeezed together in another armchair, Hannah’s head on Cas’ shoulders, her eyes closed. When Dean notices Cas is looking at him, Cas turns his head away, quickly. In the blue gleam of the TV screen, Dean can see his cheeks darken.

Dean slides down in the chair, a smirk playing on his lips as he keeps staring at Cas’ profile. He’s willing him to look back, but it takes another minute for Cas to finally crack and glance in his direction. Dean lifts his eyebrows at him in a silent question. Cas shakes his head with a smile and looks away again.

Dean’s head is full of thoughts. He wonders what Cas is thinking right now. Does he realise they’re flirting? Does he even want to flirt with him? Is he still angry about that kiss — or maybe he wants it to happen again? They’re in a much better place than a few days ago, and they actually found they can still talk to each other — at least a little. Dean knows he will go away again soon, he knows he’s terrible at keeping any kind of relationship… But what if he wouldn’t have to? Dean can’t imagine Cas actually wanting anything more from Dean. They fight too often, they lead completely different lives, and Cas is definitely too smart for someone like Dean. 

But maybe…

Dean still can’t stop thinking about that kiss, how Cas actually kissed him _back_ — because he definitely did, even though he claimed to be drunk afterwards. And even if he was drunk — isn’t alcohol telling you exactly what you want? What if Cas wanted to kiss again?

When Dean looks up, Cas is looking at him. Again.

Dean’s heart beats faster.

He has nothing to lose, he decides, and stands up slowly, stretching his hands over his head without trying to cover the fragment of skin visible just above the waistband of his jeans. He looks down and catches Cas looking.

Neither of them has anything to lose. They barely see each other as it is, anyway. Dean hunts too much and doesn’t visit too often, and Cas is usually busy with his Men of Letters stuff. They don’t have to do anything…

...but who says they can’t?

He looks at Cas one last time, arches one eyebrow at him, and walks out of the room.

The corridor is empty and dark and he stands there for a moment, wondering. He can’t see or hear anyone up ahead so he gathers they all must be back in their rooms. He wanders to the kitchen, just to be safe, checks if anyone’s there, but when he doesn’t find a living soul, he grabs a bottle of whisky, two glasses, and heads towards the library.

If Cas doesn’t come, he’ll say he was waiting for Sam. If he’s with Eileen, he probably isn’t going to see him until tomorrow morning, anyway.

Five minutes later, though, Cas walks into the library.

Dean doesn’t even move from his chair, just lets his eyes follow Cas’ movement. He can feel the fingers holding the glass tremble minutely. 

“Are you drinking alone?” Cas asks, stopping on the other side of the table.

Dean takes a sip. “Wanna join me?”

Cas moves again, walking around the table to stand just beside Dean. His naked forearm brushes against Dean’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Cas says. It’s quiet.

Dean pours him some whisky and lifts his hand to pass him the glass. Their fingers touch.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says.

“You gonna sit down?” Dean asks, trying not to let Cas know how him saying his name in that voice makes Dean feel. “Or are you just gonna hover over me?”

Cas grabs a chair and sits down, their knees barely a few inches apart. He looks at him, drinks his entire drink in one go, and extends his hand, silently asking for more. Dean chuckles and pours into both of their glasses.

“So,” Dean starts.

Cas sips, licks his lips, and locks his eyes with Dean’s. “Yes?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says.

Cas’ gaze doesn’t waver. “Another hunt?”

“Yeah. Kevin told us about a new case in Massachusetts before dinner. A vampire nest, I think. I’m going with Benny.”

“Right,” Cas says. He looks down at the table for a moment. “Well, I’ll be busy with research. I’ve got a it of new information to put into records after my trip.”

Dean thinks he should probably ask about that, but he finds he doesn’t really care. Instead, he stands up, leaving his glass on the table, and walks slowly towards one of the shelves. 

“Right,” he echoes Cas’ words. “You think you’re ever gonna hunt again?”

He hears Cas put his glass down, too, but he still doesn’t move. Dean taps a fingertip against book spines as he goes. He stops in the corner, hidden away from the door to the war room and from the tables. He can’t see Cas anymore, but he can hear him.

“Maybe,” Cas says. The chair scrapes the floor. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, we made a good team, didn’t we,” Dean murmurs. He looks up at the ceiling and smiles. He knew Charlie did a good job with the mistletoe.

“Probably,” Cas says, coming closer, slowly, uncertainly. “Why are you standing there?”

Dean doesn’t respond, just looks down, leaning leisurely against the bookshelf.

“Dean?”

Cas stops right in front of him. Dean can see his shoes, almost touching Dean’s boots. He wouldn’t stand so close if he didn’t anticipate anything, right?

When Dean finally looks up, slowly, Cas’ eyes are confused and questioning, but there’s also a hint of something darker, hungrier, more confident in them. 

“Hi, Cas,” Dean murmurs and watches as Cas swallows. “Look up.”

He does and Dean swipes his eyes over the expanse of Cas’ throat. Cas looks down almost immediately, eyes big and lips parted.

Dean wants to say something — his plan is to thank Cas for his present and maybe, just maybe, offer a present of his own — but suddenly Cas is in his space, arms bracing Dean’s head against the shelf, body pressing into his body, breath hot over Dean’s lips. Dean moves closer, chasing after his breath, and smells whisky.

Cas lets out a quiet little moan and crushes their lips together. He wastes no time in sneaking out a tongue and licking against the seam of Dean’s lips, who gasps and opens them eagerly. The kiss is similar to the one they shared in the hotel — it’s intense, hungry, and inelegant, their lips slick with saliva, breathing hot into each other as they keep kissing, open-mouthed and dirty. Dean’s hands wander and end up pressing into the small of Cas’ back, pushing him closer against him, and Cas goes willingly, Dean’s knee between his spread thighs. 

They don’t say a word as they pull apart for air, mouths almost touching, eyes closed. Cas sneaks his hands up, up, up, into Dean’s hair, and he tugs him closer again, lips burning against Dean’s jawline. Dean grunts and rolls his hips, and Cas lets out a quiet whimper when his crotch rubs against Dean’s leg. Dean feels Cas’ teeth grazing his earlobe and he pushes his knee higher up, satisfied with Cas’ soft moan.

He wants to say something, he feels words pushing at his lips, trying to escape, but he swallows them down with another rough roll of his hips. He’s hard in his pants, and so is Cas, and Dean doesn’t hesitate before squeezing Cas’ ass through his jeans and pulling him closer.

Cas moans into his ear, loud, and then starts pressing wet kisses into Dean’s neck. They’re still moving desperately, the sound of denim against denim perfectly audible in the quiet of the library, their gasps and sloppy kisses even louder. Cas rides Dean’s thigh shamelessly, and then he whispers Dean’s name into his lips and Dean opens his eyes.

Cas looks amazing like that, with dilated pupils, reddened lips, a flush high in his cheeks. He says Dean’s name again, helpless and gasping, and Dean lets out a groan and bumps his head back against the shelf. His leg falls back down, body too weak to hold it up any longer, and Cas presses into him, their cocks rubbing against each other through the fabric of their pants.

“Fuck,” Dean moans quietly. Cas’ hands land on his hips, sneaking under his shirt and pulling Dean by the hips, rough and enthusiastic. Dean moans again, squeezes his eyes shut, and comes.

Cas must feel his entire body go limp, because he growls low in his throat and pushes Dean hard against the shelf, hiding his face into Dean’s neck. He pants, rolls his hips two more times, and stiffens, lips hot on Dean’s skin.

“Fuck,” Dean finally manages as his hands fall to his sides. Cas breathes against him for a moment longer and then straightens up as well, eyes fixed on his own crotch.

“I agree,” he mutters. His voice is fucking wrecked and there’s a wet patch on his jeans. 

Dean knows his don’t look any better, but he’s too lazy to check now. He just smiles and lets out a pleased sigh. He just came in his pants like a friggin’ teenager. He just dry-humped Cas. He couldn’t be more content.

“I gotta say, Cas,” he murmurs, still with a smirk. “I always knew I liked this tradition.”

Cas looks up then, and there’s a small frown on his forehead. He meets Dean’s eyes, then glances at the mistletoe still hanging above them.

“Yes,” he says, quiet. “It’s a nice tradition.”

Dean straightens and snorts a laugh when the shelf they’ve been leaning on wobbles dangerously. He shoots Cas an amused glance. Cas looks away, probably embarrassed.

“Merry Christmas, again,” Dean says. “More whisky?”

Cas shakes his head. “No, I’m tired. I think I’m— I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Dean walks past Cas, patting him on the shoulder, and gathers the glasses and the bottle from the table. “I gotta get up early tomorrow if we wanna hit Massachusetts before—”

He hears footsteps and looks up, surprised. Words die on his tongue as he catches the sight of Cas disappearing around the corner. He frowns.

“Goodnight to you too, asshole,” he mutters. There’s an uneasy feeling in his stomach, an itching just beneath his skin. He was sure it would be gone now, after what just happened with Cas. It _should_ be gone. Dean doesn’t want to think about any reason for it to be back so soon.

He sighs, frustrated — at himself, at Cas, at the uncomfortable stickiness in his pants — and then decides to leave the bottle on the table and just go to sleep. 


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER 11**

_2-5 January 2009_

Sam stumbles upon an interesting case just after New Year’s. At first glance, it doesn’t seem like much — an old hotel in St. Louis, Missouri, notorious for being a place guests choose for their suicide. Sam reads about the latest one — on older lady shooting herself in one of the rooms — and wonders why on earth the business hasn’t been closed yet. 

It turns even more fascinating when he decides to read more about the hotel. He discovers a few vague descriptions of the previous use of the building and ends up researching the place in the Men of Letters files. 

Eileen finds him when he’s neck-deep in reading about the history of the organisation.

“Oh geez,” he gasps, jolting when Eileen puts a hand on his shoulder. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” she says and eyes the books scattered around the table. “Research?”

Sam grins at her and switches to signing, still excited to use it as much as he can. _I found a case!_

Eileen smiles, visibly pleased, and rewards him by leaning down and planting a kiss on his cheek. Sam feels his face grow red — they’ve been getting closer and closer for some time now and only really kissed twice (Christmas day, under the mistletoe someone put in Sam’s room, and New Year’s Eve at midnight — Charlie covered them with confetti for that). Sam can’t get enough of her, but he also doesn’t want to ruin anything, so they’re taking it slow. Really slow.

It’s exciting.

 _What is it?_ Eileen asks.

 _A… suicide. In an old hotel. Many suicides over the years,_ Sam signs.

Eileentilts her head, interested, and as she takes a place beside him, he pushes a book in her direction. 

“Get this,” he says and points at one specific fragment in the text. Sam gives Eileen a moment to read, and when she looks up, he continues. “It was the Men of Letters chapter house fifty years ago or so.”

“Do you think it’s haunted?” 

_It could be a ghost, or a curse, or even something more complicated. I really want to investigate it._

_You should,_ Eileen says with a smile. 

_I hope there are some books there,_ Sam continues excitedly. _Maybe the Men of Letters left something there. We could use it._

They end up talking about it a bit more, exchanging ideas and suggestions. Sam considers calling Dean, but he still isn’t sure whether it’s an actual case, so he decides to talk to the rest of the bunker’s residents first.

During dinner, he relays all the facts, practically fidgeting in his chair with the nervous energy to just get in the car and go. He’s just about to ask whether they think it’s even worth a shot when Cas looks up at him from his plate, an undecipherable expression on his face.

“I want to go with you,” he says.

“Me too!” Charlie says. She’s grinning and Sam grins back, but then looks back at Cas.

“So you think there _is_ something to be found there?” he asks.

Castiel straightens up in his chair and looks away. “I don’t _think_. I _know_ there is.”

The library falls silent for a second or two, everyone staring at Castiel while he refuses to look at anyone. 

“You know?” Kevin asks. “You’ve been there?”

Sam notices the look Cas sends his siblings sitting beside him. “No. My family told us about it.”

“We don’t know much,” Hannah says quickly, exchanging another pointed look with Cas. “Right?”

“Not much, no,” Cas answers.

“But you know _something_ ,” Sam insists. “Can you tell us more?”

“There are no books there,” Cas says.

“Castiel,” Gadreel mutters.

Cas ignores him. “But whatever that is, it’s killing civilians. We should investigate.”

Sam arches an eyebrow. “We? You really wanna go?”

“You don’t know anything else?” Charlie asks, suspicious, sending a hard glare in Gadreel’s direction. 

Gadreel puts his knife down, stands up, and leaves the library without another word. Sam knows the Miltons know more, even if they aren’t ready to share it with them, so he stares back at Castiel and decides, “Okay. We can leave tomorrow.”

“Good.” Castiel stands up, too, ignoring the pleading look Hannah is sending him. “I’m going to go get ready.”

He leaves soon after, taking both his and his brother’s plate with him. Sam looks at Hannah, but before he can open his mouth, she shakes her head with a loud sigh and leaves the library, as well.

“Well, that wasn’t weird at all,” Pamela says.

“They know something,” Charlie says.

“Good.” Sam gathers the notes he’s brought with him to tell the rest about the case and stands up. “You gotta remember, they used to belong to another faction of the organisation, it’s normal they have other information than us. It’s actually pretty handy.”

“Just… be careful, Sam,” Ellen says. 

“It’s only Castiel,” Eileen protests.

Sam sends her a smile. “Exactly. They probably don’t wanna say anything because it’s a family secret, or something. They’re pretty close-lipped about family stuff. They’d tell us if it was anything too dangerous.”

“So why do you think they’re so eager to go there with you?” Kevin asks, thoughtful.

Sam doesn’t know how to respond to that, not yet at least. Castiel said there are no books there, but he did confirm it used to belong to the Men of Letters. There must be something else worth their time there.

***

The drive to Missouri lasts over seven hours and Sam is disappointed at not being able to get any more information out of Castiel. Admittedly, Cas has been pretty withdrawn — more than usual, that is — since Christmas, but Sam has hoped he would learn something new about the Milton family or the strange hotel. As it is, all he’s been able to discover is the fact that there may be an object which used to belong to the Men of Letters and may be causing the suicides. Cas doesn’t say anything more, though, and Sam is left stewing in his own thoughts for most of the ride.

Sam thinks about calling Dean a few more times, even just to pull any reaction out of Cas. He was glad to see them interact a bit more during Christmas, but he knows Cas and Dean still seem to have a bit bumpy relationship. Sam is not sure where they stand — do they still hate each other or are they actually trying to get along more — but he knows every mention of Dean to Castiel — and vice versa — triggers a response which is usually interesting to watch. Depending on the day, it may be a smile, a pout, a stream of curses. A blush happened once, too, right after Christmas day, and it left Sam wondering about Cas’ actual opinion of his brother. He left it alone for now, though, because Dean hasn’t visited since December. Also, it’s none of his business. 

He doesn’t call Dean, after all, and stops asking Castiel serious questions. Cas seems to relax, just a little bit.

They arrive in St. Louis in the late afternoon and decide to rent a room in a motel and go investigate the hotel as the FBI in the morning. The go on a run when the sun sets since they didn’t have time to do it back in Lebanon in the morning. Both Cas’ and Sam’s moods brighten and they end up watching a ridiculous horror movie with Nicolas Cage that night while lying in their respective beds. Cas complains about the use of bees as the murder weapon and Sam laughs so much his stomach starts aching.

He’s almost asleep half an hour later when Cas calls out to him in the dark.

“Yeah,” he mumbles sleepily.

“I know you think I’m behaving suspiciously,” Cas says. 

Sam blinks himself more awake. “It’s okay, Cas. I know you’re a good guy,” he mutters with a chuckle.

Cas stays silent for a long moment. “I just… don’t like talking about my family. And I didn’t want you to come here alone, in case it turns out more dangerous than it seems.”

“You think it may be dangerous?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas whispers. “Yet.”

Sam frowns into the dark, but Castiel doesn’t say anything else after that, and soon Sam falls asleep again.

***

It takes them some time to sweep the entire hotel — it’s four storeys high, with multiple rooms and back rooms — but after about an hour of going around with EMFs and hex bags, they decide that the hotel is neither haunted nor cursed.

The owner keeps giving them wary looks as they go back and forth in front of the reception desk and ask seemingly random questions. Sam is disappointed; just as Castiel has said, there are no Men of Letters books in that house and the whole case suddenly seems very doubtful. He is about to suggest going out into town to investigate someone (although there is no one to investigate, really, because the last victim was a guest and she seemed to have no family around) when Castiel pulls him back with a serious face.

“Distract her,” he whispers.

Sam stares at him, surprised. “What? Why?”

“I will go down into the basement,” Cas says, looking away, “and check there.”

“I can go with you,” Sam says. “We’re FBI, she has to let us go in there.”

Cas doesn’t look happy, but agrees, and they go downstairs despite the clearly terrified look on the owner’s face. 

The basement is dark and mouldy, barely used. They take out their flashlights and look around, waving at the spiderwebs and kicking the debris. At the back of the room, they find a big gaping hole in the wall.

“What’s that?” Sam asks. His EMF meter stays dead silent down here, too, so he pockets it and looks at Cas. “What’s in there?” 

Castiel bends down and climbs through the hole into a much smaller room. It’s even more demolished than the previous one. Sam stops to inspect the hole — it seems as if someone has made their way through it with a hammer and a lot of strong will. When he turns to share his thoughts with Cas, he notices the thing that has Cas’ entire attention.

There is a high metal monument in the middle of the small room, similar to a large old safe. When Sam steps closer, he sees the small door, seemingly without a keyhole, with a bronze rounded inscription all around the sign in the middle.

“Hey,” he says. “That’s the Men of Letters symbol!”

Cas doesn’t turn to look at him. “Yes. The Aquarian Star.”

“What does it say?” Sam leans down, curious. “Is that Latin?”

“Sam…” Cas stands up and tries to block Sam’s view, but he’s too small. Sam glares at him and pushes him away.

“ _Arcam confutare sitim restinguere… sanguine nostrum_ ,” he reads, turning his head to be able to see better. 

“Sam,” Cas tries again.

“To silence the box slake its thirst with…” 

They both look up when they hear fast footsteps coming towards the stairs to the basement. Cas puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder and pulls him up, quick and rough.

“Move,” he says and kneels in front of the box, hands on its door. Then he sends Sam a pleading look. “This is called the Werther Box. It’s cursed. It was made by one of us — a Man of Letters. I know how to disarm it.”

“How?” Sam asks, but Castiel shakes his head. 

“You have to distract the owner. She shouldn’t be here when I’m doing it, it’s not safe. Just go. Stop her from coming in here.”

“But…” Sam stares at Cas’ hands that keep touching the vault, as if looking for something to open it. “How do you disarm it?”

The footsteps sound on the stairs and Cas sends him another look.

“Go. I’ll take care of it.”

Sam goes. He has no idea why Cas is suddenly in such a hurry and he can’t even think of any way of disarming the cursed box — maybe Cas has a hex bag prepared just for it? — but suddenly he hears a click and looks up to see the owner with the gun in her hands.

“Hey!” he calls and lifts both his arms. “Hey, please, put the gun down. We’re taking care of this. Whatever you feel you need to do — don’t.”

“I don’t care if you’re FBI,” she says, voice shaking. “You need to get out of here. Now. You shouldn’t have come in here. It’s not safe.”

“I know,” Sam says quickly. “I know, okay? But we’re gonna make it safe again. Don’t worry. My partner is just working on—”

“Call your partner and leave,” the owner says, “or I’m pulling the trigger. I’d rather kill you myself than watch another person do it themselves. I’m sick of this. I’m so sick of this.”

Sam shoots a glance over his shoulder — Cas is still kneeling in front of the box, head bowed and hands outstretched. He has no idea what’s going on, but there is a gun pointed at his head. He decides to just keep talking.

“We’re gonna be fine. All of us, I swear. It’s gonna be over soon—”

There’s a weird glint in the owner’s eyes at his words, and then she moves her arms. Sam jolts, scared she might actually pull the trigger, but then she just puts the barrel against her own temple.

“Or maybe I’ll just end it myself,” she says and laughs through tears. “The hotel is ruined anyway. I just want it to stop.”

“Please, please don’t,” Sam begs. “Put the gun down. Please—”

Suddenly, there’s a loud crack, followed by a wave of something powerful and dizzying. The owner sways and her arm falls down. Sam is by her side within seconds and plucks the gun out of her fingers. She closes her eyes and slides down to the dirty floor.

Frantic, Sam turns around. “Cas!” he calls. He can’t see anything now because the place where Cas was kneeling is full of dust. 

There’s a tense moment of silence. Sam stands there, a gun in his hand, a sobbing woman by his feet, and his heart in his throat. Then the dust settles and Cas walks out, one of his hands covering the other.

“I’m alright,” he says calmly.

“What was that!” Sam yells, jumping down the stairs and running towards Cas. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. I told you it’s fine. The box is disarmed.”

Sam can feel his eyes bug out. “How? How did you do it?”

Cas holds up a hand. There’s a cut on his index finger. “It required the blood of a Man of Letters. I just gave it what it wanted.”

“That’s it?” Sam stares at the vault behind Castiel’s back. “Just a small cut?”

Cas sends him a small smile. “It’s an old box. It was easily satisfied.”

“And what was that sound?” Sam asks. He wants to go over to the box and inspect it, but Cas sends him a sad look. Sam doesn’t want him to think he doesn’t trust him, so he stays in place. 

“Well, the box was cursed, and when I gave it my blood, it reacted with magic,” Cas explains. 

“And no one has ever discovered how to disarm it before,” Sam wonders.

Castiel smiles again. “I guess the guests weren’t legacies.” 

He walks past Sam towards the woman still sitting on the floor. Sam sends one last look at the box — it seems completely useless now and there’s a gaping hole where the small door used to be. Sam had no idea that Men of Letters’ artefacts could be so powerful. 

“Sam,” Cas calls from the stairs. The owner is gone now, probably already upstairs, trying to calm down. “Let’s go.”

Sam turns towards him and smiles. “Yeah. I’m coming.”


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER 12**

_24 January 2009_

It’s cold and quiet and Castiel is alone.

He’s not entirely sure where he is. It looks a bit like his old room back in the Milton mansion, but the walls are completely empty, similar to the way they look in his bedroom at the bunker. When he looks around, he spots a big open box lying on his unmade bed — the box is old and metal and Castiel know, somewhere deep in his mind, that it’s not a good idea to come closer. He does anyway, fingers itching to touch it, to grab whatever is inside the box.

Before he realises, he’s sitting on the bed with the box in his lap. Something is spilling out of it — it’s blue and sparkling, like the inside of a Christmas snow globe. He sinks his fingers in the substance, both scared and delighted when the cold liquid covers his entire hands and turns them cerulean.

Something — someone — calls his name. He looks up and his blue fingers curl into the covers on his bed. 

“It’s in your blood,” says his uncle. He’s standing by the door and looking at him with a wide grin on his otherwise emotionless face. “Look, Castiel. It’s in your blood.”

Castiel looks down at his hands. The blue substance that covers his hands is leaking out of his wrists and fingers. He curls his hands into fists to stop it, but it doesn’t help.

“We were right all along,” his uncle says.

Castiel realises he’s sitting in a pool of his own blue blood that keeps gathering on his mattress. He reaches for the blanket and tries to get rid of it, but there’s no way to stop it from flowing. 

“Cas,” someone calls from the floor.

It’s Dean, and he’s lying crumpled just beside the bed. There’s something sitting on his back, crushing him into the floor. Castiel moves closer, trying to inspect it.

“Please, Cas,” Dean gasps.

The thing on Dean’s back is barely visible, but Castiel knows it’s there. He reaches for the box full of his blue blood and overturns it over Dean’s body. Dean lets out a groan when the substance reaches his skin and leaves burning marks on it. The thing from Dean’s back is gone.

“No,” Castiel murmurs. Dean curls on the floor, moaning in pain, and all Castiel can do is watch as the blood sinks into Dean’s skin. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to—”

Something grabs Castiel by his shoulder and lifts him up, up, up. He looks down into Sam’ eyes and crumbles, seeing the hurt in them. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Castiel repeats. “I didn’t want to. I tried not to— I just wanted to help, I promise, I’m sorry…”

The blue blood from Castiel’s fingers seeps into Sam’s skin. Sam yells and backs away, as far away from Castiel as he can. It’s too late, though. 

He’s already stained.

“I didn’t want to…” Castiel says, helpless.

Then he wakes up.

It’s hard to try not to think about the dream, but it’s even harder to actually _think about it_. Castiel knows exactly where that dream came from, even though it’s been days since the events at the old hotel. He can still remember the way his hands felt as he disarmed the Werther Box — he can still remember how easily the lies rolled off his tongue when Sam kept asking questions. _I just gave it what it wanted_ , he said. _Just a small cut. The blood of a legacy._

Sam believed him, of course. Why wouldn’t he?

Castiel sits in his bed for a long time, just breathing into the hands covering his face. It’s been over two weeks and it still hurts him to look at Sam, and today is going to be even worse.

Today is Dean’s birthday.

He gets up, finally, and shuffles to the bathroom to take a shower. The halls are empty and Castiel wonders whether Sam went running this morning. He looked disappointed when Castiel told him he wouldn’t run with him anymore, at least for some time, but he didn’t say anything. Castiel felt even more guilty.

Castiel could just tell them. Him, Hannah, Gadreel — they could gather everyone in the library and tell them all about the spells, and the magic, and the Miltons. Some would probably even react positively: after all, the Men of Letters are supposed to be pioneers, researchers, innovators. And yet, every time Castiel thinks about his uncles and his cousins and even his _brother…_ There is no way they are telling anyone. Not now, anyway. Hannah may be trying to convince him that it’s not the same, but he still feels _wrong_.

There is one thing good about it: the situation with Dean suddenly doesn’t seem all that serious. On some days, Castiel can still feel the phantom touch of Dean’s lips, remember the way it felt to be pressed against Dean, remember the exact moment Dean stiffened in his arms, letting out a moan that shook Castiel’s entire body. The echo of Dean’s breathing haunts Castiel day and night, in the library, in the shower, in his bed — but it’s not a bad memory. Dean didn’t treat him badly, he just offered and allowed Castiel to take everything that was being offered. The fact that Castiel longs for Dean — not just his body, not just his kisses, _all of him_ — well, it’s not Dean’s fault. Castiel knows he should consider himself lucky he even gets to have _that_.

That’s why Castiel doesn’t act offended or distant when Dean appears in the bunker later that day, all bundled up in his leather jacket, with a pink nose and a wide smile on his face. He gets flooded with birthday wishes and small gifts and gives back the same amount of love he’s being showered with. He hugs Castiel, when it’s his turn — and Castiel melts against him for a moment, fingers weak where they grip the back of Dean’s soft shirt.

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean grins at him and shakes the little box Castiel gave him. “What’s that?”

Castiel shrugs. “Open it.”

“I swear, Cas, if it’s jewelry, I’m never talking to you again,” Dean jokes. Castiel finds an interesting spot on the war room floor; he can feel Sam’s curious gaze on him. “Oh, man! That’s awesome!”

Castiel looks up again, a light flutter in his chest. Dean is holding a dark silver pocket knife and looking at it from every side, a small grin on his lips. Castiel had spent an eternity choosing between at least four almost identical knives before he finally decided on the one with serrated blade and a pretty steel handle. 

“Dude, I love it,” Dean says and sends Castiel an excited look. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel murmurs and steps back to allow another person to give Dean their gift. 

They all spend hours in the library (Castiel does _not_ look at the bookshelf in the corner and does _not_ think about anything that happened during Christmas). Ellen baked a pie especially for Dean and they each get a slice after dinner while Dean confiscates the rest of the pie all for himself. When they can move again, Dean decides they should go out for a beer or two and celebrate.

That’s how Castiel finds himself sitting in the backseat of the Impala with Kevin on his left, listening to Pamela and Dean chatting about something in the front seat. Charlie took her own car and Sam and Eileen joined her, just in case Dean got too drunk to drive later. Dean didn’t disagree and winked at Pamela when she promised to keep him company.

Castiel doesn’t really like bars and celebrations, and he normally wouldn’t even feel up to going out with friends from the bunker, but it’s Dean’s birthday, so he makes an exception.

***

Dean is beautiful when he laughs.

It’s a full laugh, with his eyes crinkling at the corners, his head thrown back, cheeks slightly pink from alcohol and amusement. The pub’s light is weak and blurry, but it seeps through Dean’s bronze hair and shines in his eyelashes. Dean’s lips stretch in a smile, then move when he talks, then pull apart over the beer bottle. Castiel watches as Dean licks his lips after another sip of the beer, watches as Dean looks down, concentrating on whatever Charlie is saying to him. He laughs again. And again, and again.

Someone kicks Castiel’s ankle. He looks over at Pamela sitting in the booth beside him. She sends him a pointed smile and winks.

Castiel looks down and grips his beer bottle harder, but he’s back to staring at Dean not even a minute later.

“Hey, Cas, I heard you and Sam had a case recently?” Dean asks after some time. 

They’re sitting across from each other, separated only by the table and the numerous empty bottles. Castiel takes a moment to just look at Dean, to enjoy the way Dean is looking back at him with a similar intensity. 

“We did,” Sam says finally, when Castiel forgets to actually respond. Maybe he’s had too much beer. “It seemed easy at first, but turned out kinda curious.”

“Curious how?” Dean asks, turning to look at his brother.

“Well, I was hoping to find some Men of Letters books,” Sam explains, “but all we found was some kind of a box… Cas, what did you say it was called?”

“The Werther Box,” Castiel says.

Dean looks back at him, eyes incredibly green. 

“Ooh, like the character,” Kevin says.

“What character?” Pamela asks.

“Oh, there was this German book. Werther was basically like a German Hamlet,” Kevin says. “All he wanted to do was to kill himself.”

Dean winces. “That’s not cool.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sam says. “The box, the one me and Cas found, pushed people into killing themselves. But Cas disarmed it pretty quickly.”

“Good for Cas,” Dean says with another smile Castiel’s way.

Castiel’s fingers prickle — he remembers the box, the dust surrounding it, the spell that surged through him when he murmured the words and pricked his skin — and then he’s standing up before anyone can say anything else. 

“Bathroom,” he murmurs by way of explanation and hurries towards the back of the pub.

His head is dizzy when he reaches the bathroom door, all the alcohol rushing up and making his vision hazy. He hadn’t realised he was so drunk.

Some time passes — he can’t be sure whether it’s been seconds or minutes, too deep in his thoughts of magic and secrets — and then there’s knocking on the door of his stall.

“It’s taken,” he mumbles through his fingers.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice. Castiel lifts his head. “You okay, man?”

Castiel scrambles up and unlatches the door. Dean peeks inside and smiles uncertainly when he notices Castiel is just sitting there, fully clothed.

“You can use the toilet,” Castiel says and pushes past Dean. “I was just leaving.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says and closes the door. “I came to see how you were doing.”

Castiel spends some time washing his hands in the sink, eyes downcast, while Dean stands beside him and stares. 

“I’m okay,” Castiel says. “Just needed a moment.”

“Do you wanna go home or something? You’re a little pale.”

“No, I’m okay,” Castiel repeats. “We can go back to your friends now.”

He tries to move towards the door, but Dean blocks his way and puts a hand on his shoulder. Castiel freezes.

“They’re your friends, too,” Dean says and there’s a frown on his forehead now. Castiel wants to reach out and smooth it with his fingers.

“Yes,” he says. “I know.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Castiel blinks at him. “Yes. I’m just a little drunk.”

Dean’s lips spread in a slow, beautiful smile. “I know what you mean,” he says in a low voice.

Castiel inches closer. “What are you doing here, Dean?” he asks, dropping his voice to a whisper. 

“Came to check how you were,” Dean says, but his eyes are on Castiel’s lips. “You kinda ran away and got us worried for a second.”

Castiel hears the whoosh of magic in his ears and feels a tingling in his fingertips — or maybe that’s just alcohol and Dean. He closes his eyes for a moment, feels Dean’s grip on his shoulder, and presses forward.

Dean’s fingers slide onto the back of Castiel’s head and keep him in place as Dean kisses his lips, a slow, sensuous touch that tears a gasp out of Castiel. His knees buckle without his permission, but Dean is right there to hold him upright with a palm on his hips and a rough shove into the cold wall behind Castiel’s back. Castiel breathes out again and Dean swallows the sound, their tongues curling around each other and lips hungry and uncoordinated.

Dean rolls his hips without preamble and Castiel lets out a moan, feeling the hard line of Dean’s arousal against his thigh. He keeps his eyes closed still as Dean slides his lips down onto Castiel’s jaw and neck. Dean’s smell is overwhelming, even in the dirty pub bathroom — a mix of alcohol, leather, and an intoxicating cologne. Castiel whimpers and brings Dean’s mouth to his lips again with both hands in Dean’s hair.

Dean licks into him again, slowly, teasingly, a tantalising roll of his hips making Castiel lightheaded. He moves, seeking friction, and gasps when a hand sneaks in between their bodies and rubs him through his pants.

“Dean,” he breathes out and cants his hips towards Dean’s palm.

“Yeah, I’ve got you,” Dean whispers and starts kissing his cheek, his ear, breathing against his hair. He pins Castiel harder against the wall and his hand disappears. Castiel growls low in his throat without actually meaning to. 

“Touch me,” he grunts and rolls his hips into Dean’s.

Dean groans. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Wait, lemme just—”

Castiel’s eyes fly open when Dean’s fingers sneak beneath his shirt to play with the button of his pants — and then the door to the bathroom opens and a man stumbles in.

Castiel pushes Dean off of himself.

“Uh. Sorry!” The man says, slurring a little. “I ain’t lookin’, I swear.”

“Shit,” Dean mutters and turns away from the guy, head ducked and ears red. 

“You can carry on,” the man hiccups and enters the stall Castiel vacated some time ago.

Castiel straightens his shirt, slowly, and then risks a look up at Dean. Dean is already looking at him.

“We should—” Castiel starts, quiet, but then Dean reaches out and grabs Castiel’s hand.

“Follow me,” he mutters.

Castiel doesn’t protest — he can’t because Dean drags him out of the bathroom and back into the main room of the pub. He chooses another way, though, far from their table, and then they’re pushing through the crowd by the main door and out into the street. There are some people there and Castiel tries to see if they are looking at them, but Dean still isn’t letting go of him. They pass the corner of the building and enter the dark parking lot. They’re almost by the Impala when Castiel finally manages to tear his hand out of Dean’s hard grip.

“Let go of me,” he barks.

Dean turns to stare at him, wide-eyed. “What—”

“I can walk by myself,” Castiel says, even though he still feels drunk and wobbly. To prove a point, he stalks towards Dean and ends up crowding him against the Impala, hands splayed over Dean’s jean-clad hips and lips hungry over Dean’s lips.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean moans and buckles up into him.

“The car?” Castiel whispers, fingers already searching for Dean’s belt.

Dean lets him unbuckle and unzip his jeans and pants into his ear when Castiel reaches into his pocket for the car keys. Castiel fumbles with them for a moment, not sure which key is which, and Dean closes his teeth lightly over Castiel’s earlobe.

“Fuck, hurry up,” he groans. “Been waiting for this since Christmas.”

“You have?” Castiel asks, pulling away just a little to look into Dean’s face.

“Hell yeah,” Dean murmurs and surges forward to kiss him again, opening the car door and pulling him into the backseat at the same time. 

They tumble inside inelegantly. Castiel hits his head against the ceiling as he tries to settle over Dean’s thighs, and Dean keeps fidgeting and moving his legs in the small space under the seat. And then, finally, everything clicks and they melt against each other again, lips hot and hands impatient.

Castiel feels Dean’s palm on his crotch, again, and he rolls his hips into it, head falling back with a quiet moan. Dean holds him down with one hand and then makes quick work of unbuttoning Castiel’s jeans and sneaking his fingers inside.

“Oh,” Castiel breathes. “Oh, Dean.”

Dean frees Castiel out of his pants and boxers and takes him into his hand. “You like that, Cas?”

Castiel’s hips jolt up. “Yes.”

Dean moves his hand up and down, experimentally, and Castiel’s whole body shudders. “How do you like it? Like that?” 

Castiel falls forward, hides his face in Dean’s neck. His skin is ablaze.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs into his hair. “Cas, hey, look at me.”

Dean’s hand disappears again. Castiel heaves himself up and glares down at him, but soon stops when Dean holds the same hand up to Castiel’s face.

“Lick it,” Dean says darkly.

His cheeks burning, Castiel leans in and presses a kiss against Dean’s palm, one, two, three kisses. He grows considerably harder as he sneaks out a tongue and, tasting himself on Dean, licks a wet stripe all over Dean’s big hand, from his wrist up to the tips of his fingers. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean chokes out and drags him in for a proper kiss. 

Their moans echo in the car as Dean wraps his hand around Castiel and tugs, one, two, three times. Castiel’s head is spinning from the hot wetness of Dean’s mouth against his tongue and the sound of skin against skin as he starts leaking onto Dean’s thick fingers. 

Castiel can feel Dean’s arousal when Dean lets him go for a moment and Castiel continues to rub against the front of Dean’s pants and his shirt. He realises he’s panting only when he hears Dean join him with his soft gasps. Castiel reaches for Dean’s hand and wraps it around himself again, the other hand bracing him on the back of the seat just beside Dean’s head.

“You can move, too, buddy,” Dean murmurs, looking up at him. “C’mon, Cas. Move.”

Castiel starts rolling his hips in time with Dean’s hand. They keep looking at each other in the dark and the fingers of Castiel’s other hand start slipping over Dean’s skin with all the precome that’s spilling out of him. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean groans. His hips are moving, too, slow enough not to disturb Castiel’s pleasure. “Are you— ”

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and grips the headrest so tight his fingers hurt, and then he’s coming all over his shirt, lips parted but no sound escaping him. Dean curses again and surges forward to kiss him again, hard enough to bruise. Castiel keeps his eyes closed, but he fumbles for Dean’s jeans, already unbuttoned and unzipped.

“I can do it,” Dean mutters into his mouth and then he’s pushing Castiel’s hand away and taking himself out and into his own hand. 

Castiel feels too limp to sit upright anymore, and he leans heavily into Dean, his forehead on Dean’s shoulder as he watches Dean bring himself to full hardness. Dean starts breathing even louder when Castiel closes his lips over Dean’s jaw and moves his hand back on top of Dean’s. Dean jerks under his touch, curses, and speeds up.

“Come on, Dean,” Castiel whispers into his ear and leans in to graze his teeth against Dean’s skin. “Dean.”

“Fuck,” Dean grits out as an orgasm spills out of him, covering both his and Castiel’s hands and shirts.

For a long moment they just lie, unmoving and limp, too tired and drunk to even clean themselves. Castiel pushes his face in between Dean’s shoulder and neck and breathes in, eyes closed and head heavy.

“We should go back soon,” Dean mutters after a while.

“I know,” Castiel says. He can feel Dean’s fingers on the small of his back.

“I have tissues in my pocket,” Dean says. “Do you think anyone’ll notice anything?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says and straightens up. It takes them a moment to sit down in the backseat properly and then try to clean themselves as best as they can. Dean’s shirt is dark, so it doesn’t look half bad, and Castiel ends up tucking his shirt into his jeans to hide the wet spots.

“You go first,” Dean says and pushes the used tissues into his jacket pocket. “Tell them you had to get some fresh air or something.”

Castiel nods and scrambles out of the car. His knees are weak and he has to lean against the car for a few seconds. Soon, Dean hisses at him, so Castiel takes a deep breath and walks towards the pub without looking back at Dean.

He can still hear buzzing in his ears.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER 13**

_26 February 2009_

The third girl disappears on the same day Dean hits town.

The first one was kind of a recluse and didn’t even make the news. People wouldn’t realise she was missing, probably, if it wasn’t for the second disappearance — a young woman went missing during a night out with her boyfriend and friends. Sam called Dean one evening, saying he’d dug up the information on the first missing girl, too, and thought it was worth checking out. 

Dean was in Indiana at that time and had just hunted down a boring and predictable witch selling dangerous spells for her friends in the neighbourhood. Driving up an hour and a half to Illinois seemed like the easiest thing in the world.

When the third girl disappeared — Karla Foreman, a nurse in the local psychiatric hospital, missed two shifts in a row before people became more interested — Dean called Sam and asked him to send up another hunter, preferably not Gordon, because this definitely sounded like a case.

Dean starts with the fresh trail and visits the hospital to talk with nurse Foreman’s friends. They don’t tell him much, mostly because there aren’t that many of them. Doctor Fuller promises she was a great nurse and had a lovely personality, but that’s about it. Dean requests a talk with a few of the patients, but regrets it the moment they open their mouths.

“I didn’t like her,” says one lady, holding a pink plush rabbit against her chest. “She was too sweet.”

“She always called me ‘sugar’,” says another woman. “I miss her.”

The young man with rough stubble leans towards Dean. “Are you going to investigate the monster, agent?”

Dean blinks. “Uh, a monster? What monster?”

“Shut up, Eddie,” says the rabbit lady. “He’s here because of nurse Foreman.”

“Yeah! Maybe the monster took her!” 

“No,” the other man says. “The monster’s gone. I told you the monster’s gone.”

“Okay.” Dean holds up a hand. “Start over, alright? What monster are we talking about here, guys?” He should have known interviewing the mental hospital patients wouldn’t do any good.

“The one that kills,” Eddie whispers.

Dean tries not to roll his eyes. 

“It made it look like suicides,” the other man says. “You can read it in the paper, I think. But some of us… We saw it.”

“It had claws!”

“No, it didn’t! It had no skin on its face.”

“And x-ray vision!”

Dean leaves the hospital exasperated, but determined. He reads up on the suicides, but decides to leave it for now and check out the nurse’s apartment. He doesn’t find anything particularly interesting except for the bloodied silver knife that has been left at the crime scene as part of the evidence.

Before calling to consult Sam, Dean tries to find out some more information about Kate, the first missing girl. She disappeared over two weeks ago, but everyone claimed she just left the town — apparently she moved around a lot. Her apartment was discovered empty by the landlord who arrived to collect rent. Dean wants to visit the place, but he learns it’s already being rented to someone else and he knows he won’t find anything substantial there. Instead, he goes over to the small cafe where Kate used to work and asks her former colleagues some questions.

“She was weird,” one girl says. She has long black hair and full lips. “Kind of a weirdo, if you ask me.”

“She was just shy,” says the other girl, this one wearing huge glasses. 

“No, that wasn’t ‘shy’. That was secretive. We barely knew her, agent,” Full Lips says. “She would just come to work every morning and then leave every afternoon. Never joined us when we went out on weekends.”

“I don’t think she had any friends,” Huge Glasses adds sadly.

A guy comes out of the back room, then, and Dean asks him the same questions. The guy doesn’t have much more to say about Kate, but just before Dean leaves the cafe, he suggests, “You wanna check her locker?”

Apart from boring stuff — a change of clothes, a lipstick, a forgotten bottle of water — Dean finds an old book without a cover in Kate’s locker. He thumbs through it and immediately finds a bookmarked chapter. It’s titled ‘werewolves’.

He goes back to the main room.

“Did you ever notice Kate behaving strangely around a certain time of month?” he asks casually.

All three employees gawk at him.

“You mean, like, PMS?” Full Lips asks.

“She actually took a day off, every month, like clockwork,” the guy says with a shrug. “I thought it was because she was in pain or something.”

Dean leaves the cafe with a bundle of confusing thoughts in his head and calls Sam.

“I think Kate was a werewolf,” he says instead of a greeting.

“Who’s Kate?”

“The first girl, the one that disappeared two weeks ago. Her colleagues said she used to take a day off every month. I’m guessing full moon. And I found a book on werewolves in her locker.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“I know it doesn’t, but it’s a lead.” Dean gets into his car and drums his fingers on the wheel. “Maybe she just took off, tired of this town. But maybe she was killed during a hunt or something.”

“If she really was a werewolf, maybe we should be grateful something eliminated her,” Sam muses. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean mutters. “Anyway. I have no idea what happened with the nurse, but they found a silver knife in her apartment. And get this — when she disappeared, the suicides in the hospital stopped all of a sudden.”

“The suicides?” Sam sounds surprised. Dean smirks.

“Someone hasn’t done his homework. Yes, suicides. There were at least five in the weeks before the nurse took off, and all the patients claim there was a monster among them.”

“So you think _she_ was the monster?” Dean can almost hear Sam thinking. “Also a werewolf? That would explain the knife. Someone tried to use it on her.”

“Yeah, that’s my theory. The question is — who’s hunting werewolves around here without our knowledge?”

***

The theory crumbles in their hands when Dean visits the house of the third girl.

“We— we met at a bar,” her boyfriend explains. Dean can see his hands shaking. “Kristen and I— we knew each other online and then decided to meet IRL.”

“IRL?” Dean asks.

“In Real Life?” The boyfriend, Robert, squints at him. “Dude, how do you _not_ know that.”

“I don’t spend my whole life online, that’s how,” Dean deadpans. “What can you tell me about the night Kristen disappeared?”

Robert looks down. “Uh. We were out with, uh, some friends. In a— a bar.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean mutters. “Can your friends confirm that?”

Robert sends him a panicked look. “I-I guess? But you better not ask them.”

Dean is already standing, but he crosses his arms over his chest for good measure. “And why not, Robbie, pray tell.”

“They, uh. Don’t like the police.”

“I’m not the police.”

“You’re the FBI, that’s close enough.” Robert runs a shaking hand through his hair. It’s freakishly long on the top of his head and almost red. Dean grimaces. “Look. My friends had nothing to with that. They would never hurt her.”

“And what about you, Robert? Would you hurt your girlfriend?”

“Never!” Robert stands up. “I loved Kristen! We were supposed to be together forever!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, really. Tell me this, Robert — did you ever notice Kristen behaving strangely?”

“What do you mean, strangely?”

“Like she would get really, uh, aggressive once in a month, for example. Or like she would never touch anything silver. Or like she would have really long nails and refused to give you a proper hickey.”

Robert gasps, offended, but it turns out it’s not for the reason he should be.

“Are you actually suggesting my girlfriend was a freakin’ werewolf? We are far better than those disgusting mutts!” he yells and that’s when his fangs appear.

***

“You just met _who_ , Dean?” 

Dean shakes his head, still unbelieving. “Edward. You know, the vampire. His Bella has been taken and he’s devastated.”

“Are you high?” Sam asks, then mutters, as if to someone else, “I think Dean’s high.”

“Nope. But the third girl, Kristen? She was a vampire. As is her boyfriend. I just had a little chat with him and he spilled the beans. He got so offended when I implied Kristen was a werewolf…”

“And you let him go?” 

“For now. I think he’s harmless. They were just living in their own Twilight-land and hoping to be together forever.”

“That sounds terrible, but whatever. So, what do you think?” 

“I think there’s no case,” Dean says. “There’s a hunter here doing a damn good job taking out monsters. I say we send them a fruit basket.”

“Ah. Well, Dean…”

Hearing Sam's tone, Dean sits up on the motel bed. “What,” he asks, flat.

“I told the guys about the case earlier,” Sam says, sheepish. “And they decided we needed to join you as soon as possible.”

“What?” Dean frowns. “What guys?”

“Cas and Gadreel. We’ve just entered Missouri. We should be there by nightfall.”

Dean’s thoughts screech to a halt for a long moment. “But why?” he finally asks. “There’s no case.”

“Well, they think—”

Sam’s words cut suddenly, only to be replaced by a low rumble of Cas’ voice. “Stay where you are, Dean. There _is_ a case there.”

Dean swallows down a sudden rush of dizziness. He hasn’t talked to Cas for over a month.

“Hello to you too, Cas,” he says finally.

Cas is quiet for a few seconds. Then, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean chuckles, looks down. He’s suddenly grateful he’s alone in the room and no one can see him blush. He _knows_ he’s blushing.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” Cas says. “But you have to believe me.”

“What makes you think there’s something here?” Dean asks.

“I told you. We used to live there.”

Dean blinks, surprised. Pontiac, Illinois? Dean had thought the name sounded familiar, somehow, but he couldn’t remember why. It still doesn’t really explain Cas’ concerns, though.

“So? You think you can help because you know the place?” 

“Just trust me, Dean,” Cas murmurs, voice distant. “We’ll be there soon.”

***

Castiel is slowly worming his way under Dean’s skin and there is absolutely nothing Dean can do about it. 

He feels it with Cas’ every word, every smile, every look. He feels it with their every touch, with the way his lips tingle hours after they finished kissing, or how he can’t stop thinking about Cas when he’s alone. Every time they’ve had sex so far has happened under the influence of alcohol, but Dean yearns to touch him sober. He wants to remember every gasp and heavy breath, to store those memories and use them when they’re apart. Dean wants to go back to the bunker — and never leave.

It’s dangerous, so he rarely lets himself dwell on that, but now they’re going to meet again and Dean knows he won’t be able to stay away. And that’s what terrifies him the most, because he knows Cas doesn’t feel the same way.

There’s a reason why Cas never contacts him. Dean is always away and doesn’t even have Cas’ number, but Cas lives with Sam — asking for Dean’s number wouldn’t be that difficult, and yet Cas has never done so. They only meet when Dean finds the courage to show up at the bunker once a month or so. 

The fact that they’ve always been drunk when they kissed or had sex makes Dean even more frustrated. Cas would obviously never do that if he was thinking straight. Or, well, sober.

Dean is a mess. He’s a hunter and never stays in one place for too long, and he sucks at relationships. He drinks too much, swears too much, and turns clingy when he’s lonely or afraid. He’s _just a hunter_ and Cas can do so much better. He deserves so much more.

There’s a knock on his door that saves him from more depressing thoughts. Dean checks the state of his clothes and goes over to open. 

Sam enters first, followed by Cas and Gadreel. They all exchange hello’s and Dean allows himself a moment longer to lock eyes with Cas and smile.

Cas smiles back, but it’s dull. Dean looks down.

“Okay, guys, spill,” Sam says and sits down on Dean’s bed. “They wouldn’t tell me anything,” he explains.

Gadreel nods. “We think we know who’s responsible for the disappearances.”

Sam perks up. “Really? Who’s that? A hunter?”

“You could say that,” Gadreel says. “As you know, we used to live here. We don’t know any hunters in the city.” Both Sam and Dean open their mouths to ask another question, but then Gadreel adds, “Except for those in our family.”

Sam blinks, surprised. “I thought you guys were Men of Letters.”

“We were,” Gadreel says. “We are.”

Dean shoots a glance at Cas, who’s sitting silently in a chair by the kitchenette, his phone in his hands. Dean’s eyes take in Cas’ tense shoulders and the frown on his face, but he tries to smile when their eyes meet. Castiel looks away quickly.

Dean focuses back on Gadreel’s words instead of on the sour feeling in his stomach.

“But some Men of Letters like to hunt.” Gadreel points to Sam. “You, for example. You still participate in hunts.”

“That’s because I used to be a hunter,” Sam says, thoughtful.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cas speaks up. “Our family was divided when our father disappeared, and a lot of us left the city, but we know the rest are still here. If anyone is hunting the monsters, it’s them.”

“So what,” Sam is frowning, trying to follow the Miltons’ reasoning, “you’re saying you just want to make sure it’s one of yours and not an actual monster killing other monsters?”

Gadreel looks away for a briefest of moments, but nods. Sam shrugs and nods as well. 

“There’s one more thing,” Castiel says and stands up from his chair. He holds up the phone. “There’s been another disappearance.”

“What?” Dean asks. “When? I’ve been here all day.”

“I’m still connected to the police reports,” Cas says, “back from when I used to look for cases living here. A local bar owner just called 911 claiming he heard one his employees, a young woman Lucy, got attacked in the parking lot after her shift. He was too scared to come out and help her because there were at least three attackers and he was alone.”

Sam gets up from Dean’s bed and joins Cas’ side to read over his shoulder. “I wonder whether she was a monster, too. What if she was innocent?”

Gadreel stares at Sam. “That is why we need to investigate. We know very well not all monsters are evil.”

“Yeah! Come on, we need to go check it out. Where’s that bar?”

Gadreel looks over Castiel’s second shoulder. “Oh, I know where it is. It’s not far from here. I think I may actually know the owner.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I used to work there when I was younger.”

Dean meets Cas’ eyes, then looks up at Sam. “Are we all going?”

Sam frowns for a second. “I don’t know. If you want? I know you’ve investigated three cases today already.”

“I’d like to take a shower, actually,” Cas says. “After the long drive.”

“Sure.” Sam waves his hand. “I’ll go with Gadreel, then, and you guys can wait for us here, if you want.”

Dean can feel a gentle flutter in his chest. “I’m down with that. Absolutely.” 

He ignores the sly look Sam sends him.

“And me and Castiel can discover who’s hunting the monsters tomorrow,” Gadreel says.

“We will,” Cas says.

“Okay, guys. We’ll be in touch,” Sam says and then they’re out of the room and Castiel is locking up the door and turning slowly to look at Dean.

Dean stands still for a few long seconds and has no idea what to do next. When Cas tilts his head at him, eyes pensive, Dean clears his throat. 

“Do you want a beer?” he asks and turns towards the kitchenette. “I think I still got one or two left.”

“No, Dean,” Cas says. “Thank you.”

“Oh, okay.” Dean shoots a glance at him over his shoulder. Cas is walking towards him, slowly, and then stops beside the table. “Do you mind if I…?” He lifts a bottle.

Cas sends him a weighty look. “I do, actually.”

Dean blinks, walks over to the table, and puts the bottle down. “You do?”

“I’ve got the impression,” Cas says and drops his gaze, “that recently all we’ve been doing is getting drunk.”

“Is that bad?” Dean asks. His right hand is cold from the beer bottle and he rubs his fingers together slowly, eyes never leaving Cas’ face.

“Not really, but I’d like to stay sober for once.”

Dean realises fully what he’s talking about when Cas finally lifts his head again and pins him with a heavy look. 

“Why?” Dean asks, throat dry.

“So that I know you really want it,” Cas says simply.

Dean is moving before Cas even stops talking. He grabs his shoulder with right hand, feeling the warmth seep into his skin. Cas tilts his chin up and looks at him, eyes big and unsure, and Dean leans in and kisses him right on the lips.

It’s the slowest kiss they’ve ever shared. Cas breathes out shakily and Dean gathers him up in his arms and presses him against the table, kissing deeper. 

“I want it,” Dean murmurs into his mouth, knee coming up between Cas’ thighs. “Believe me, I want it.”

Cas grips his hips and pulls him closer, head angled to the side to give Dean better access to his lips. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat when Dean presses the knee harder and then keeps making them as he starts rolling his hips, slow, unhurried, sensational.

“Dean,” Cas whispers, voice breaking. “Can I try something?”

Dean blinks his eyes open and pulls away. “I guess?”

“You can tell me to stop if you don’t want it,” Cas says, pressing kisses against the line of his throat. “Just tell me to stop.”

“Pretty sure I want it, Cas,” Dean breathes out, and then gasps when Cas puts his hands on Dean’s chest and _pushes_.

Dean goes willingly, feet scuffing the carpet on the floor, and Cas keeps pressing against him with his lips and hands. His teeth graze the skin just under Dean’s jaw; Dean’s brain short-circuits for a moment and he almost doesn’t notice the back of his knees touching the bed.

But then he’s being pushed to sit down on the mattress, Cas’ hands heavy on his shoulders and then his chest and hips and thighs. Dean stares, eyes wide and breath hard, as Cas sinks down to the floor in between Dean’s legs.

“Just tell me to stop,” Cas whispers, and he sounds so unsure Dean has to surge down and kiss him again.

“Please, don’t stop,” Dean pleads into his mouth. “Whatever you’re about to do, I want it, I swear.”

Cas touches his face with his fingertips and nods. When Dean leans away and looks down at him again, he has his eyes closed and his lips parted.

“I want you, Cas,” Dean says quietly, his heart stopping in his chest at the words he knows are true.

Cas looks up at him then and smiles. 

“You’ve got me,” he murmurs and leans down.

His hands waste no time in reaching for Dean’s belt. He pops the button of his jeans, fingers deft and warm when they keep brushing against Dean’s naked skin just above his waistline. Dean breathes out through his nose and puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder when he feels his zipper being pulled down, and then closes his eyes when he sees Cas duck his head even lower.

Heat explodes in Dean’s belly when he feels Cas’ warm lips press against the thin fabric of his boxers. Cas mouths against him for just a moment, pulling short gasps of breath out of Dean, and then he moves again and pulls Dean’s cock out, half-hard and already leaking.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs and then falls back onto his elbows, looking at Cas through his spread thighs. Cas just kneels there, Dean’s cock in his hand, lips red and eyes fixed on Dean’s face.

“You’re distracting me,” he says and his soft breath makes Dean’s cock twitch eagerly.

“You’re one to talk,” Dean gasps.

Cas actually smirks at him. Dean wants to huff at him again, but then Cas sinks down and takes him into his mouth.

Dean’s head falls back.

One of Cas’ hands is still holding him, his lips moving slowly all over the head and down, down, meeting his own fingers and sliding up again, tongue clever and hot against his slit and the underside vein. Dean lets out a quiet whimper and falls heavily onto the bed, unable to hold himself up any longer. He thinks he feels Cas’ other hand grip his hip and hold him down, but he’s not entirely sure, focused solely on the feeling of Cas’ hot mouth all over him. 

“Cas,” he moans, but it’s quiet, it’s barely audible, and Cas must be doing something to him because his whole body is on fire and he can’t speak, can’t make any more sound, can’t control the hand that finds Cas’ head and the fingers that tangle gently into his soft locks. Cas works him up to full hardness in no time, taking him deeper and deeper until Dean swears he can see stars; he’s licking and sucking and kissing until Dean lets his mouth hang open, soundless. He’s got enough common sense to tug at Cas’ hair and let him pull off gently and then he comes all over his stomach.

He opens his eyes when he feels a warm weight settle on his hips and thighs as Cas crawls over him, and he looks up into Cas’ wide dark eyes.

“Can I—” Cas whispers fervently.

“Lemme,” Dean murmurs. He’s tired and weak but he manages to work his hand under Cas’ button and open it, quick and easy, and then he takes Cas’ hardness into his hand and pumps it. Cas lets out a soft moan and leans over to kiss his lips. Dean tastes saltiness on Cas’ tongue and licks against it, hand still moving between them, until Cas thrusts his hips in a few gentle rolls and spills into Dean’s fist with a loud gasp.

“Dean,” he mumbles. His lips slip down and kiss Dean’s cheek.

Dean feels delirious. He closes his eyes, lifts his arms to embrace Cas, and rolls them over to the side. Cas moves his head and kisses Dean’s lips; it’s slow and intimate.

They’ve never kissed like that before, Dean thinks after a while, Cas still close to him, their legs entangled. He pulls away, thoughtful, and looks into Cas’ face, watches as Cas’ eyes flutter open and blink at him, disoriented, fond, calm. Dean wonders what he’s thinking right now.

He’s just about to open his mouth and ask when his phone comes alive with the first sounds of Metallica. Dean huffs a laugh.

“Perfect timing,” he mutters and rolls over to tuck himself back into his pants and reach for the phone. He doesn’t miss Cas narrowing his eyes at him, though. 

It’s Sam calling, so he sits up and clears his throat. “What’s up?”

“Dean,” Sam whispers hurriedly. “We found them. You gotta come over here now, there’s like a dozen of them, or more, and we think they’re kidnapping all kinds of monsters and—”

“Whoa, Sam,” Dean interrupts. “Slow down, man. What’s going on?”

“Gadreel says it’s not looking good,” Sam says quietly. “You gotta— Oh, fuck.”

“Sammy?”

“Shit, they saw us. They’re coming over here. Listen, come over the old factory, Cas will know where it is. Hurry.”

“Sam!” Dean grips the phone tighter. “What are you—”

“Gadreel says it’s Uriel,” Sam whispers fervently. “Tell Cas it’s Uriel and Zachariah...”

Sam lets out a pained groan and then the connection goes silent. Dean hangs up and looks over at Cas who’s sitting beside him on the bed, alert.

“They’ve got them,” Dean says. “We gotta move.”


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER 14**

_26 February 2009_

When Sam wakes up, he’s alone in a dark room and his wrists are cuffed behind his back. He fidgets on the chair and looks around, blinking to get rid of the fog clouding his head.

Before he can take in his surroundings, the door right in front of him opens and light floods the room. Sam squints at the man in old-fashioned clothes and with a crooked grin on his face.

“Welcome, Sam,” he says good-naturedly and struts into the room. His shoes clang across the concrete floor.

“Who are you?” Sam grunts. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh, how rude of me. My name’s Cuthbert Sinclair and I’m a Man of Letters, just like you. I know all about you, Sam.”

Sam frowns. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Sinclair chuckles. “I’m not really a public persona anymore. Haven’t been for the last, oh, 50 years or so.”

Sam stares at the guy, disbelieving. He doesn’t look older than forty. 

Sinclair must notice the look on Sam’s face, because he laughs again. “I know. I look dashing, don’t I? Well, Sam, I’ll have you know I’ve mastered the art of longevity, so to say. I actually knew your grandfather!”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, it really isn’t. I was Henry’s mentor. I used to live in the bunker back in the 50s.”

Sam shakes his head. “But how?”

Sinclair laughs and opens his arms, proud. “Master of Spells, dear boy.”

He raises one hand, points it at Sam, and whispers a few words Sam is unable to catch. Suddenly, the chair Sam is sitting on moves, as if pulled forward by an invisible rope. Sam’s eyes bulge out.

“Are you a witch?” he asks loudly.

Sinclair starts laughing again. “A witch! That’s a good one!” Then he leans down and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, face close to Sam’s face. “No, Sam. I just know how to use magic.”

“Men of Letters don’t use that kind of magic,” Sam splutters. 

“I know.” Sinclair sighs wistfully. “It’s a shame.”

“Why am I here?” Sam asks. “What do you want from me?”

Sinclair straightens up and winces. “I don’t want anything from you, silly. Not yet, anyway. We’re just waiting for the others.”

“What others?” 

“Well, your brother and your friend, obviously,” Sinclair says. Sam gasps and watches as Sinclair’s smile widens. “Yes, Sam, we _know_ they’re coming.”

“Who’s _we_?” Sam barks.

“So many questions,” Sinclair sighs and turns away. “Just wait here and soon you’ll know everything.”

“Hey!” Sam calls, seeing that Sinclair starts walking towards the door. “Where’s Gadreel? Who are you people? Answer me!”

Sinclair glances over at him with a grin and clasps his hands, causing the light to flicker and die. Then he disappears behind the closed door. Sam is left alone in the darkness again. 

He struggles uselessly against the cuffs on his hands and groans. He has no idea what happened after four of those men noticed them and knocked the phone out of Sam’s hand, but apparently they managed to beat them unconscious and drag them here into what Sam thinks is the same deserted factory he and Gadreel found some time ago. How much time could have passed, anyway? It was dark already by the time they finished talking with the bar owner, and it still seems like the middle of the night, but Sam’s not sure.

He lets his head fall down to his chest, frustrated. They should have never followed that car in the first place, even though Gadreel recognised one of the men inside as his cousin Zachariah. Sam knew they should have come back for Dean and Cas and then come up with the plan, but Gadreel seemed really anxious and Sam felt it was a great opportunity to get it over with quickly.

And now Gadreel is God knows where and Cas and Dean are coming to rescue them, walking straight into the trap. 

Sam is at a loss for what is actually happening here. The bartender that disappeared tonight seemed normal enough, from what the owner could tell them, but Sam won’t be surprised if she turns out to be another monster; after all, it was the case with three other girls. If Gadreel and Cas’ family is hunting them down, however, why are they keeping Sam cuffed to the chair? And who’s that Sinclair guy — is he another cousin? And is he really that old?

Sam doesn’t know for sure how much time passes as he sits in the dark and thinks, but then he hears it.

A scratch at the door.

He sits up straight in the chair, tense and breathless, and stares at the door. It creaks open, slowly, but no light appears and Sam can’t recognise the new guest. Something — someone? — shuffles and Sam hears the quiet murmur of a voice.

He swallows nervously. “Dean?”

“Sam?” his brother whispers back, and then there are footsteps and the door clicks closed again. 

“You shouldn’t be here!” Sam hisses. “They know, they’re waiting for you!”

“Yes,” says another quiet voice. Sam instantly recognises Castiel. “We assumed this much.”

Something lights up in the middle of the room and Sam sees Dean’s face, illuminated by the phone in his hands. Dean turns the phone towards Sam and swears aloud. 

“Let’s get you out of these,” he murmurs and rushes over to him.

“You’ll have to pick ‘em,” Sam says. “Do it quick and let’s get out of here.”

“Where’s Gadreel?” Castiel, his own phone in his hands, looks around the empty room.

Sam shrugs, then realises Cas probably can’t see it. “I don’t know,” he says. “He wasn’t here when I woke up.”

Dean is behind his chair, examining the cuffs on Sam’s wrists. He groans.

“I can’t open them,” he mutters. “Something’s not right.”

“Let me,” Cas says.

“What, you think you’re better at picking locks than I am?”

“Just let me see,” Castiel growls even before Sam can roll his eyes at their constant bickering.

Dean grumbles something in response, and then moves to shine the light into Sam’s face. 

“Get off,” Sam complains and ducks his head.

And then the main light in the room flickers and turns on.

“Well, hello there, gentlemen!” Sinclair bellows.

Dean immediately moves to shield Sam with his body and Castiel stiffens behind his chair, his hands still on the cuffs. Sam sees three other men pile into the room after Sinclair, and he recognises only one: Gadreel.

“Looks like everyone is here, right?” Sinclair asks with a broad smile, then looks at the tall bald man standing beside him. 

“Oh, yes,” the man says and flashes them a smile, too. He leans to the side, looking past Dean and Sam’s chair straight at Castiel. “My dear nephew! Long time no see.”

“Zachariah,” Cas seethes.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks.

Castiel ignores him. “Let Sam go,” he says instead, but doesn’t move from behind the chair.

“Oh, we will,” Zachariah says. “As soon as you’re on our side.”

“What side?” Sam can see Dean’s patience is wearing thin. He takes a step forward, his fists by his sides. Sam wants to yell at him and tell him to stop making things worse, but he’s not sure what ‘worse’ actually means in this situation. “Gadreel,” Dean says and all eyes turn towards Gadreel standing in the corner of the room. “What’s going on, man?”

Gadreel meets Sam’s eyes and something flickers across his face, something horribly resembling guilt. 

“I just wanted to make sure nothing bad was happening around here,” he says and gulps. His eyes flicker up, probably looking at Castiel. “I swear I didn’t know what they were doing.”

“You called them,” Sam says. “You called them while we were talking with the bar owner? That’s why we stumbled upon them when we walked out.”

“They must have traced my call,” Gadreel says, remorseful. “I just talked with Uriel for a short moment. I had no idea—”

Words die in his throat and he looks down, expression pained. 

“Yeah,” says the dark-skinned man standing beside Zachariah. Sam guesses this is Uriel. “You made it real easy for us, cousin. We probably wouldn’t know you were back in town for at least another day.”

“Okay, enough,” Dean barks. “I get it, family gatherings can be a pain in the ass. So why don’t you, I don’t know, _let my brother go_?”

Sam notices the smirk on Sinclair’s face a few seconds before Dean does. 

“Dean, careful—”

Sinclair whispers a word, snaps his fingers, and suddenly a chair appears on the other side of the room and Dean is flying back towards it. With a click of metal, a pair of cuffs appear on his wrists behind his back.

“What the fuck,” he mutters and struggles, trying to free his hands or stand up. Then he snaps his head up and glares at Sinclair. “What the _fuck_.”

“Stop this,” Castiel calls. “Let them go.”

Zachariah makes a face. “But they’re just _hunters_ , Castiel! Seriously, you can’t expect us to just trust them blindly the way you do. You know us.”

“Besides,” Uriel drawls, “we’ll let them go later, when they agree to join us. But first we want to talk with you, little cousin.”

“About what?” Castiel asks. He sounds nervous.

“You know what.” Uriel grins at him. “We still want you with us, Castiel. You too, Gadreel. We’re family. We should work together, no matter what.”

“Oh, it matters,” Cas growls. 

Zachariah sighs, clearly frustrated. “We’ve got new ideas, Castiel, new schedules, new concepts. Those creatures you were looking for? They’re still alive. We’re not hunting them.” He throws Dean a dirty look and Dean fidgets, attempting to jump at him, but the cuffs and the chair are holding him down. “We’re using them to come up with new spells, Castiel.”

“What?” Castiel chokes out. Sam doesn’t have to see his face to know he looks shocked.

“We never would have come up with that idea without our dear old friend here,” Zachariah says and points to Sinclair, who grins at him.

“I am a Master of Spells, after all,” Sinclair boasts.

“I know hunters have their own _dirty_ ways of dealing with the monsters,” Zachariah continues, “but honestly, they’re _so_ troublesome. With Cuthbert’s knowledge and a little prodding we can learn everything we want about every single freak of nature that walks this Godforsaken earth.”

“You’re torturing them,” Sam says. “You kidnap vampires and werewolves and experiment on them?”

“Vampires and werewolves and wraiths and shifters and many, many more,” Zachariah says with a smile. “They deserve that.”

“You don’t know that!” Sam says. Cas touches his arm in alarm but he ignores him. “The girls you took? They weren’t doing anything wrong!”

“Oh, really?” Uriel barks. “So you call a wraith killing patients innocent? No wonder you hunters are so shitty at your job.”

It takes him a moment, but then Sam realises he’s talking about the nurse from the psychiatric hospital that they had thought was a werewolf. And Dean did mention the suicides and the fact that they had stopped after the nurse disappeared. But still…

“It doesn’t justify torture,” Dean says. 

“It does for me,” Uriel says with a shrug.

“What do you want from us?” Sam asks.

“We just want to make the world a better place,” Zachariah says. “Join us! We can teach you.”

“Teach us what? Torture?” Sam spits.

Zachariah gives him a weird look. “No. Magic, of course.”

“Oh, I ain’t gonna dabble in witchcraft,” Dean snorts. “Forget it.”

“It’s better than witchcraft,” Sinclair speaks up, rolling his eyes. Then he glances at Sam. “I know you’ve got spell books in your precious little bunker. I know you have dealt with magic in the past. Why not give it a chance?”

Sam stares back at him and suddenly remembers the box in the old hotel. Cas had said it was made by one of them, by a Man of Letters.

“Because your kind of magic pushes people into killing themselves,” Sam says. “And we don’t want any part of that.”

Sinclair grins. “You found my box, didn’t you? How are you still alive?”

Sam makes a face. “Because I’m good at my job.”

Sinclair’s eyes flicker up to Cas, then back to Sam. He smirks. 

“Either that, or your dear friend Castiel helped you with that.”

Sam feels Cas fidget right behind him.

Uriel huffs. “Let’s just show them what we do,” he says, irritated. “If they still don’t wanna join us, well…”

Zachariah flicks his hand at him. 

“Tell Gordon to bring one of them,” he says.

Hearing the name, Sam meets Dean’s eyes questioningly. Dean frowns and narrows his eyes at Zachariah, as if his glare alone were able to help them.

“We’re going to show you one of our newest spells,” Zachariah says and starts strutting across the room, towards Dean. “It’s absolutely glorious. A few words and the creatures just… disintegrate. I really don’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to know how to do that! It makes everything so much easier!”

Zachariah leans towards Dean with a smirk.

“Maybe because we’re not just some mindless killing machines,” Dean growls at him. “But you know what? I think I know why you’re doing this. You gotta have balls to hunt like we do, and apparently you don’t, junkless.”

Zachariah puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Sam wants to yell at him, but at the same time he feels Castiel’s hands back on his arms. Something warm slides over Sam’s wrists and he thinks he can hear Cas mumble something under his breath. 

And then, the cuffs are gone. 

“Don’t move yet,” Cas says so quietly that Sam barely hears him. 

He couldn’t move even if he wanted to, though, shocked by Cas’ actions.

Zachariah doesn’t do anything to Dean, just scoffs and turns around in time to greet the people that enter the room. Sam sits up, recognising Gordon.

“What are you doing here?” Dean barks at him.

Gordon flashes them a smile. “Good to see you, fellas,” he says. 

He’s clutching the arm of a young blond girl while Uriel is holding her on the other side. The girl is shivering and wearing frayed clothes; Sam can see multiple wounds on her body. The skin seems to be peeling off in places, exposing raw muscle. Her head is hanging low, hiding her face, but Sam can see long dirty nails protruding from her thin fingers. She has cuffs on her wrists and ankles, but they look fragile even to Sam’s eyes.

Sam hears Dean’s sharp intake of breath.

“That’s Kate,” he says. “The first girl.”

Sam is too distracted looking at her shuddering body to notice the way Zachariah stumbles back from the girl, but he hears his quiet yelp.

“Gordon,” he seethes, “not this one! It’s not ready!”

“I’m sick of waiting,” Uriel barks. “Let’s try this one instead. Show ‘em what we can really do.”

When Sam glances at Zachariah, he sees how pale he is. 

“We were supposed to show them the fighting spells,” he yells, “not this… this… thing!”

Sinclair steps forward, a curious look on his face. “What is it?” he asks and sends Zachariah a look. “What did you do to her?”

“It’s not ‘her’ anymore,” Uriel says with an ugly grin. “It’s a perfect monster. It’s got everything — claws, teeth, shifter skills.”

“I never taught you that,” Sinclair says slowly.

“No, that’s our own idea,” Gordon beams. “Zach approved, even though he didn’t wanna help us. Right, Zach?”

“Take it away,” Zachariah says. He’s standing on the other side of the room. “Lock it away, it’s not ready.”

“Aww, uncle,” Uriel murmurs. “Just believe in us.”

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks. He steps forward, eyes glued to Zachariah. “What have you done?”

“It wasn’t me,” the man says stubbornly.

Sam looks back at Sinclair, who’s still stepping closer and closer to the girl, hand outstretched and face interested. He touches her chin and lifts her head.

Uriel and Gordon tighten their grip on her arms when she looks at Sinclair, eyes red and teeth bared.

“I don’t think there’s a spell for that,” Sinclair whispers.

And then the girl lashes out.

It happens so fast Sam barely has time to spring out of his chair towards Dean. Castiel is there in a matter of seconds, too, and they both lean towards the cuffs on Dean’s wrists while Uriel lets out a piercing scream. Sam freezes and looks up just in time to see the girl bury her teeth in the man’s throat.

“Move back, Sam,” Castiel growls and pushes Sam’s hands away.

“Hey!” Sam protests, but then his eyes bulge out when he sees Cas whisper something and touch the skin on Dean’s wrists. The cuffs vanish with the small flash of warm golden light that seems to be coming out of Castiel’s fingertips.

“Move,” Cas rasps out, gripping Dean’s arm and hauling him up. 

They try to stumble towards the door while the monster pushes its hand into Gordon’s head and pierces his temple with the long spike growing from its wrist. A wraith’s spike. Noticing the monster is busy with him, Sinclair looks back at them, smirks, and snaps his fingers. Then he’s just gone.

Zachariah yells something and the monster howls, falling to the ground beside Gordon’s dead body. There’s a gold light around Zachariah’s hand when he mutters again, pointing at what’s left of Kate and taking a step forward. 

This time, the monster just barks and throws itself at him in a flurry of claws and teeth. Gadreel yells and jumps in with a knife in his hand. Dean pulls out the gun from his pocket and shoots.

“No!” Castiel shouts. “Don’t hurt them!”

“Cas, we gotta kill that thing!” Dean shouts back, then shoots again.

“You’re gonna hurt my brother!” Cas screams and then he lifts his hand. “Gadreel, step back!”

Sam watches, dumbfounded, as Gadreel stumbles back from where the monster is trying to sink its teeth into Zachariah’s skin. Without any other warning, Castiel yells something — it sounds foreign, and powerful, and terrifying — and then, in a flash of gold, both Zachariah and the girl stop moving.

Cas lets out a sob and falls to the ground.


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER 15**

_26 February 2009_

Castiel had told himself he would never use magic again, but then he met Dean Winchester and magic came pouring out of his hands.

The first time it happened, Dean was tied up to the low ceiling of that murky cave in the middle of the woods in Minnesota. Castiel didn’t really know him then — but he knew Sam, and saving Sam’s brother was a priority. When the wendigo came right at him, Castiel didn’t have flare guns, so he whispered a few words and hexed his bullet so that it burned bright and hot when it reached the monster.

Dean broke his leg and was miserable for the next few weeks, but at least Castiel managed to save his life.

Then, they hunted down the buruburu and Dean got sick. When the ghost jumped on his back and crushed him to the cold ground of the cemetery, Castiel didn’t even hesitate — he cast a spell to get rid of the creature and saved Dean from a certain heart attack. He wanted to tell Dean then — about his family, and the magic, and everything else — but the words wouldn’t come.

He didn’t want to use it… but then Sam found the case and the Werther box and he would have bled himself to death to stop it from killing other people. Castiel couldn’t just stand back and watch. He wouldn’t be able to look Dean in the eye ever again. So he used another spell and saved Sam’s life.

Now he was back in Pontiac and he just took another man’s life with his own two hands.

“That’s enough sulking,” Dean says aloud after he stops the car in front of the motel. 

Castiel can feel him looking at him, but he can’t meet his eyes. They haven’t said anything the entire ride back from the warehouse and Dean let him just sit in the front seat in total silence.

Not anymore.

“Cas,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees him move his hand, as if wanting to touch him, but he retracts it. “Get out of the car.”

Castiel dips his head and opens the door. Looking back, he notices Sam parking his car in the other free space of the parking lot. Castiel didn’t feel like driving, he just passed him the keys and got into the Impala after Dean barked at him to move.

Sam and Gadreel get out, and then the four of them just stand there for a moment, all eyes on Castiel.

“We should rent another room,” Sam says finally.

“I can do it,” Gadreel says hurriedly. “Three singles?”

Castiel bites his lip and hears Dean scoff. “Let’s just get inside.”

“I’ll join you later,” Gadreel mumbles and disappears inside the reception area.

Dean jingles his key and they follow him towards his room. Castiel knows Sam continues to glance at him, but he doesn’t want to see the expression on his face just yet and he keeps his head low.

He also tries to ignore the way his insides twist at the sight of the bed inside the room. The covers are rumpled, a striking reminder of Dean’s pliant body pinned beneath Castiel.

Sam looks at the bed, makes a weird noise, and sits down on the chair beside it. Dean goes over to the kitchenette and grabs a beer from the fridge. He doesn’t offer it to anyone else. 

Castiel closes the door with a silent click, then turns and stops by the window.

“So.” Sam doesn’t waste any more time. Castiel would smile at his efficiency, but he can still see Zachariah’s stiff body lying on the ground right beside the awfully mutilated corpse of the young girl. “Castiel.”

Castiel sighs. 

“Umm, I guess I gotta ask… what was that about?” Sam sounds uncertain, almost apologetic, as if he would give everything not to have this conversation.

“My family knows magic,” Castiel says. He glances over his shoulder and sees both Winchesters looking at him, Sam’s eyes worried, Dean’s upset. “The dark kind. I learned some of it, inadvertently, while we were still living here, with the rest of the family. Many of us left some time after they started using it in earnest because we didn’t agree with it.”

He lets out a breath and rubs a hand over his face. “From what I understand, they’ve evolved since the last time I saw them. Cuthbert Sinclair is a Man of Letters,” Castiel looks at Sam, who nods eagerly, “or rather, he used to be. He was dismissed in the 1950s because of his dangerous magic. Zachariah always admired him,” he says wistfully. “I’m guessing he finally found a way to contact him.”

“And they started working with him,” Sam adds. “Right? Trying to discover new spells to deal with the monsters the easy way.”

“But that’s wrong,” Dean says. “Magic is bullshit. I don’t trust it.”

Castiel winces and looks down. “It can be helpful at times, but…”

“No, it can’t,” Dean mutters. “There’s a reason they expelled that Sinclair guy, right? Because they knew magic is dangerous. Look what they did to that poor girl.”

Sam sighs. “It was horrible. Do you think Sinclair will continue to do that to monsters? Should we try to stop him?”

“No,” Castiel says. “He was surprised to see her. He said there wasn’t…”

“There wasn’t a spell for that,” Sam finishes for him. He lifts his eyebrows. “And yet, you knew one.”

Castiel turns towards the window again. “Zachariah managed to weaken the creature with his spell,” he murmurs. “I just finished what he started.”

“You made our cuffs disappear,” Dean says. “Just like that.”

“I told you, I learned a little bit of it back at home.”

“Good thing you remembered it,” Sam says. “After all those months.”

“It’s not easy to forget,” he says, quietly, and then adds, because he has to say it, “Also, I‘ve used magic after leaving home.”

There’s a moment of silence. Castiel hears Dean put the beer down.

“Say that again?” he asks, voice flat.

Castiel turns to look at him. “I used a spell to kill the wendigo,” he says. “And I used another spell to kill the buruburu when it jumped at you.” He ignores the expression on Dean’s face — full of surprise and disgust — and looks at Sam. “I disarmed the Werther box with another spell. It was even more complicated because Sinclair himself had created it.”

“You used magic on hunts and never told us?” Sam asks.

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but then Dean moves, brushes past him, and leaves the room with a slam of the door.

“Shit, Cas,” Sam says. He stands up and runs a hand through his hair. “Dean really hates witches.”

“We’re not witches,” Castiel says woodenly. 

“Well, but you know magic. It’s close enough…”

“I don’t even use it,” Castiel says. His hands slowly curl into fists. “I refuse to use it unless I really have to.”

“I know,” Sam says. “But it’s still… God, that’s kinda huge, Cas. Why didn’t you tell us? Do Gadreel and Hannah know about it, too?”

“Of course. I told you, the reason we left was—”

“I know, I know.” Sam starts pacing across the room. “Look, Cas. Thank you for saving us tonight, really, but—”

“I killed my uncle, Sam,” Castiel says. He can hear that his voice is cold. “He wasn’t my favourite person on Earth, but he was a human being. And I used magic and I killed him.” He looks up at Sam and sees him swallow nervously, obviously trying to say something. “If you think I’m going to use magic ever again after tonight, Sam, I can assure you you’re mistaken.”

Sam’s face falls. “You tried to save us, man. It sucks, I understand, but you gotta know we’re grateful.”

“Oh, yes. Dean, especially.”

Sam shakes his head. “He just needs time to process all of this. Really, Cas, don’t you know him at all?” 

“He said magic is disgusting,” Castiel grits out.

“He didn’t,” Sam says.

“Well, he might as well have.” Castiel walks past Sam and grabs the bottle Dean left on the table. “I don’t regret using magic to save your lives. I don’t regret not telling you because I tried to stay away from all of this.” He waves his hand vaguely and then puts the bottle to his lips. He gulps the beer, its bitter taste burning his throat. “I never wanted this to happen.”

“I know that,” Sam says, and Castiel thinks he really does know, but it still doesn’t make the sour feeling in Castiel’s stomach disappear. “It’s just a lot to take in. The monsters, and the magic, and shit, you used magic to disarm that box? _How?_ ”

Castiel glances at Sam again and sees a clear trace of interest in his eyes. He really is a true Man of Letters, he thinks, then sighs and puts the beer down. It tastes terrible anyway.

“It required the blood of a Man of Letters,” he explains. “And I gave it some of it, just a little nick in the finger, and then used the spell to fool the box into thinking there was much more blood than just a drop.”

Sam shakes his head with a low chuckle. “Wow. I mean, I get that magic is tricky and all, but no one can ever convince me it’s not useful sometimes.”

Suddenly, the door opens again and they look up in time to see Dean stalk inside, Gadreel standing just behind him.

“Sam,” Gadreel calls, “can I talk to you for a second?”

Sam’s mouth drops open in protest, but Castiel catches the look on Dean’s face — if he had to put it into words, it would read _‘get the fuck out, Sam’_ — and Sam understands quickly. A moment later, he joins Gadreel and the door closes behind them, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the room.

Castiel refuses to start talking this time, and instead grabs the beer bottle again. Maybe drinking it isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Put that down,” Dean says and walks towards him.

Castiel puts it down without taking a sip, but doesn’t move to look at him.

“Aren’t you gonna say anything?” Dean asks after another long moment of silence.

“Yes, I am,” Castiel says, eyes stubbornly glued to the table in front of him. “I’m happy I could use magic to save your life.”

Dean scoffs. “And what if it hadn’t worked? Or what if it had killed me along with the monster, just like it did kill that douchebag?”

Castiel’s fingers tighten on the edge of the table. “That douchebag was my uncle.”

Dean lets out a weird sound. “I… I know. Yeah. I mean.” He clears his throat. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Castiel turns and glances at him. “I understand, Dean,” he says. It’s hard to look Dean in the eyes, so instead he focuses on the spot on his ear. “Sam told me you hate magic, and I understand. And I’m never, ever going to use it again, not after tonight.”

Dean huffs loudly. “That’s so fucked up.”

Castiel closes his eyes, then. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? I am. I wish I didn’t have to ever deal with it, but I’m not sorry I knew those spells.” He looks down with a quiet sigh. “You could have been dead if it wasn’t for me.”

Dean stays silent for a moment, and Castiel can see him shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“I guess I should thank you for that,” he says finally, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Look, it just… threw me off a little, at first, knowing you used magic on me and didn’t even mention it. But, yeah. Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nods, but keeps looking down.

“And I’m really sorry about your uncle. And your cousin, Uriel?” Dean adds. “I’m not sorry about Gordon, because he was an asshole and that’s what you get for teaming up with the bad guys. Not that I’m saying your family is the bad guy here, uhh…”

“It’s okay,” Castiel murmurs. “They are. They always have been.”

“So, um.” Dean shuffles again. “I’m glad you managed to get out of that shithole, then.”

“Yes. Me too.”

“Hey, Cas.” Castiel sighs when he hears Dean say his name like that, again. “Look at me.”

Apparently, Castiel takes too long, because suddenly Dean’s fingers curl under his chin and tilt his head up. He breathes out, surprised, and his eyes lock onto Dean’s.

He doesn’t look angry anymore.

“Was it really bad?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Castiel wants to move closer, to eliminate the space between them, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do that. “Living here with your family?”

“Not at first,” Castiel says. Dean’s fingers leave his chin, but he keeps looking into Dean’s eyes. It gives him more strength to talk about these things, somehow. “Not when I was a child. But when my father left and the fights started… We stopped being a family. I don’t… I don’t think I really remember how it is to _have_ a family.”

“Well,” Dean says with a small smile, “you have to admit the bunker is quite awesome.”

Castiel shakes his head and looks down again.

“Cas?” Dean moves closer and puts his hand on Cas’ elbow. “What, you don’t think the bunker is awesome?”

“No, I just… This is…” Castiel tries to turn away, far from Dean’s inquisitive eyes. “It’s just difficult. I love living there, but it’s difficult.”

“What’s difficult? Cas?”

Castiel looks up. He can feel an embarrassed flush on his face, he can feel his fingers tremble minutely. “I’m not… We’re not… We’re outsiders,” he finally utters. Dean’s fingers tighten on his arm, but he ignores them. “Me and my siblings. I know we’re new and we’re different, and now you know all about our family. I can imagine how… difficult it is for you, as well.”

“ _What’s difficult, Cas?_ ” Dean repeats.

“Having us there,” Castiel says. “In the bunker. Living in there with all of you makes me… very happy. I-I consider all of you friends,” he mutters, flustered. “But I know that we don’t—”

“Fuck, Cas.” Dean steps back, and when Castiel’s head snaps up to look at him, he notices the confusion on his face. “What are you saying, man?”

“It’s just hard for me to watch all of you when all I have is my brother and my sister.”

Dean lets out a long breath and rubs a hand over his face. “Shit. Okay. First thing, Sam loves you.”

Castiel blinks at him and Dean flushes.

“I mean. Sam thinks you’re awesome. He legitimately loves having you around, because you’re both huge nerds and you like books and all that shit. And Charlie? Charlie thinks you’re dreamy, and she says that in a totally platonic kinda way, as you probably know. Kevin freakin’ admires you. Ellen has already adopted you as another wayward kid.”

Castiel leans heavily into the table beside him. “What… what do you mean?”

Dean throws his arms into the air. “You’re family, man! You, and Hannah, and Gadreel. You’ve been family since the moment you stepped into the bunker, because Sam loves having everyone around and I guess he was just sick of me and decided he needed a new family, you know,” he chuckles.

Castiel frowns. “Sam is not sick of you.”

“Well, maybe not. But he’s so fucking social, man, sometimes it tires me out, to be honest. He’s always had lots of friends and, like, I’m not saying he can’t. I’m happy for him. I’m happy he has all of you, because you are all awesome.”

“I—”

“You’re family, Cas,” Dean says and finally steps closer to him. “Part of the bunker family, whether you want it or not.”

Cas feels tears burning somewhere behind his eyes, so he looks down quickly, trying to hide them. 

“Sam told me once you often avoid hanging out with them,” Dean adds, hesitant. “I thought maybe that was because, uh, because of me. What happened between us. But that’s not all of it, right? You just felt like it wasn’t your place to _bother_ them, right?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, but for Dean it must feel like an answer in itself, because he sighs. 

“Let me just tell you, you dummy — you were wrong. So, so wrong,” he says.

Castiel can hear a smile in his voice, so he looks up, curious — and when he catches Dean’s gaze, he can’t seem to look away.

“I.” Dean gulps, but keeps staring straight at him. “I kinda know how you feel. I mean, like I said, Sam’s always been more social. And I, uh, might have some issues of my own, too.”

“What issues?” Castiel asks, because even if it feels a bit like prying, he feels he’s allowed to do it now. 

“So, umm. There was this girl, Cassie.” He lifts a brow at him and huffs a laugh. “I know, right? But anyway, when Sam discovered the bunker and moved in, I decided to try something else, too. We used to be on and off again, me and Cassie, so I kinda showed up on her doorstep and asked her if I could stay. It was good for a while, but leaving the hunting business behind is hard as fuck and, uh, she left me. It messed me up a bit, I admit, and I jumped into hunting again. I kind of suck at relationships, anyway,” he finishes and sends Castiel a nervous look. “As you know very well.”

Castiel stares at him and takes a small, very small step towards him. “We both know that I wasn’t acting my best, either,” he says, because suddenly they’re talking about the things happening between them and he wants Dean to know _everything_. 

“What are you talking about?” Dean huffs. “I started it.”

“And I’m not incapable of saying no, Dean,” Castiel mutters. “I’ve never said no to you, even though I could have.”

Dean gulps. “We should’ve, like, talked about it. It wasn’t like a one-night stand and we both know it.”

“No.” Castiel takes another step. “It was a three-night stand.”

A smile flashes across Dean’s face, but then he bites his lip. “It… it was more than that. I mean. For me. It was more than that for me.”

“And you think it wasn’t for me?” Castiel asks in a whisper.

Dean closes the space between them and catches his lips in a kiss, hands coming up to touch his face and bring him even closer. Castiel grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and kisses him back, small, careful touches of his lips against Dean’s, his breath heavy but calm, the grip of his fingers tight and certain and gentle. One of Dean’s hands moves back into Castiel’s hair and he sighs with pleasure at the soft touch.

They move back towards the bed, just as they did a few hours ago, but this time it’s slower and more deliberate, Dean’s breath hitching in his throat when Cas slides his hand down and rests it on Dean’s stomach. Dean sits down on the mattress and looks up, wondrous and eager.

Castiel cups his face with both hands and leans down to kiss him again. Dean whimpers softly, parts his lips, and the tip of his tongue sneaks inside Castiel’s mouth with practised ease. Castiel tries to sit down on the bed beside him, but Dean growls low in his throat and catches him around the waist instead.

“C’mere,” is all he says, voice husky, and then he’s pulling Castiel onto his lap, Castiel’s knees on either side of Dean’s hips. 

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and then Dean’s hand wanders down and touches Cas through his jeans. Castiel breathes into Dean’s mouth and pushes down onto his fingers, delighted when Dean obliges and palms his hardness more firmly. Castiel can feel Dean too, so he rolls his hips in a slow, careful circle and is rewarded with Dean’s low moan.

“Like that,” he breathes against Castiel’s ear. Castiel ducks his head and kisses the skin of his neck, hips pushing down into him. “Fuck, Cas.”

A small yelp escapes Castiel’s lips when Dean falls back onto the mattress, taking Castiel’s body with him. Dean grins at him and his hands fly up to palm his ass through his jeans. Castiel obliges and presses himself against him, lips finding Dean’s eager mouth again, hips meeting Dean’s movement.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs into his ear. “Come on. I wanna see you.”

Castiel leans back on his elbows and peers down at him.

“All of you,” Dean says and flushes.

Castiel kisses him on the cheek. “Yes,” he sighs and rolls his hips one more time. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

He rolls away then, and scrambles up on the mattress, sneaking curious glances Dean’s way. Dean sends him a small grin that looks shy considering the fact that his face is delightfully flushed and his pants don’t hide his arousal. Castiel thinks he must look the same.

They both strip off their outer layers — Dean’s jacket ends up on the floor and Castiel hangs his coat over the back of the chair. Dean sends Castiel another look, and then they quickly pull off their jeans and kick off their shoes. Castiel’s fingers stop on the hem of his t-shirt when Dean glares at him.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean grunts and his hand reaches towards Castiel. “That’s my job.”

Castiel flushes, but comes back to the bed and sits down in the middle of it, Dean half reclined and smiling at him. Castiel wants to lean down and kiss him, but Dean beats him to it, moving up and pressing his lips to the hollow of Castiel’s throat.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs and lets his head fall back, lets Dean take a hold of his t-shirt and pull it over his head, stopping the kiss just for a split second. Castiel slides his hand over Dean’s shoulders, then, removing his flannel and leaving him just in a t-shirt and boxer shorts.

“Just take it off,” Dean murmurs into his mouth. “Please.”

Castiel presses against him and they fall back down on the mattress, trading slow kisses and breathing heavily. Castiel loops his thumbs under Dean’s boxers and slowly pushes them down, revealing Dean’s erection. The boxers get caught over Dean’s knees and Castiel breaks the kiss, which allows Dean to huff out a laugh.

Castiel looks up at him, puzzled.

“You’re the first person that got me out of my underwear while I’m still wearing a t-shirt,” Dean says.

Castiel drops the boxers to the floor and leans down to leave a trail of kisses up Dean’s leg. He hears Dean’s breath hitch and he smirks.

“Are you complaining?” he asks quietly.

“Oh.” Dean’s fingers curl into Castiel’s hair as he breathes over Dean’s cock for a moment. “No. I’m not.”

“Good,” Castiel moves up and kisses Dean’s hip, hands moving to hitch Dean’s tee up. He licks the soft skin of Dean’s belly, then slides up to suck a kiss against Dean’s ribs. 

Dean’s fingers tighten in Castiel’s hair. “Please, Cas,” he breathes out.

Castiel takes mercy on him and moves to remove his shirt. Dean’s head falls back down onto the pillows and he stares up into Castiel’s eyes. Castiel leans down and kisses him when he sees the fondness in Dean’s gaze.

He quickly gets rid of his own underwear and wastes no time in covering Dean with his body, pressing urgent kisses into Dean’s warm skin. They roll their hips and their cocks meet, and a wave of electricity surges through Castiel’s entire body. Dean arches into him.

“Cas,” he gasps and catches him by the back of his neck. He brings him down for a bruising kiss, and then pulls away to stare at him again. 

Castiel ruts against him and they both moan, their lips inches apart.

“Cas,” Dean says again. “I want more.”

Castiel closes his eyes and presses his lips to Dean’s jaw, his neck, his shoulder. He bites down gently onto his skin and moves to take them both in his hand.

“Me, too,” he whispers feverishly. “A lot more.”

“But I, ahhh—” Dean’s head tilts back and he moans again, lips parting when Castiel twists his wrist against the heads of their cocks. “Now, Cas. I want more _now_.”

Castiel doesn’t stop moving his hand, but he leans back a little to stare down at Dean.

“I—” he manages.

“Unless you— unless you don’t,” Dean rushes. “That’s okay. I get it.”

“Dean, no,” Castiel sighs and kisses him again, and again, and again, because he always felt good with Dean, but he has never felt like that before. Dean keeps falling apart under his hands, breathy little moans escaping his lips every time Castiel touches him in the right way, and the way he looks up at him makes Castiel burn bright inside. They keep kissing and Dean arches his back again, and Castiel pulls back to watch him — his scrunched eyes, his flushed skin, red swollen lips. Dean moans breathily, fingers scrambling to catch Castiel’s shoulders.

Castiel lifts his hips and takes back his hand. When Dean opens his eyes and looks at him, mouth open in protest and eyes glazed, Castiel sends him a smile.

“I want more, too,” he whispers and presses a kiss into his bare arm.

“Yeah?” Dean breathes out happily. “Do you, uh… How do you…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Castiel slides his mouth against Dean’s clavicle. “As long as I get to be close to you.”

“I, uh.” Dean gasps when Castiel flicks his tongue against his nipple. “Aah, Cas.”

“Do you have a preference?” Castiel asks quietly and sucks Dean’s nipple into his mouth, happy with the way Dean groans again.

“I… You,” he stutters. “Inside me. _Please, Cas_.”

“Always,” Castiel mouths into the skin against his heart. “Do you have—”

“Duffel bag,” Dean gasps. “Side pocket.”

It takes Castiel a moment to find the small bottle of lube and a condom and when he comes back to bed, Dean all but drags him down and covers him with kisses. Castiel keeps kissing him back as he blindly uncaps the bottle and pours some lube onto his hand.

“Cas,” Dean says, and his eyes are wide and honest when he looks up at him, “I want you so much.”

Castiel smiles and decides Dean’s too coherent for his own liking. His hand moves between Dean’s legs and spreads his thighs open.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he murmurs as he leaves open-mouthed kisses against Dean’s jaw. “The sentiment is mutual.”

“Oh, you dork,” Dean says when Castiel’s finger brushes his entrance. “Just do it.”

Dean gasps and Castiel swallows the sound, slowly sliding his finger inside. Dean feels amazing around him, hot and snug, and Castiel works him open with one, two, three fingers, catching Dean's every quiet gasp and moan. He feels feverish himself, looking down at the way Dean writhes underneath him, but he's waiting for Dean to open his eyes and tell him he's ready.

When he does, it's with a prolonged moan and a strong squeeze of his fingers against Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel pulls back just to roll the condom onto himself and slick it up with a few quick jerks of his hand. Dean moans, looking at him with his eyes darkened by desire.

“Cas, _please_ ,” he pants.

Castiel lines himself up, hands touching Dean’s thighs and hoisting them up gently. He meets Dean’s eyes and Dean nods eagerly, face pleading. 

Castiel touches his throat with his mouth. “I don't wanna hurt you,” he murmurs into his skin.

“You won’t,” Dean gasps. “Come on, Cas, please. I need you.”

When Castiel slides into him, they both gasp. Castiel looks down and stares at Dean as he pushes in, slow and careful, watching as Dean’s eyes flutter closed and his entire face scrunches. 

Castiel leans down and presses his lips against Dean’s in a soft, barely-there kiss. “Dean,” he breathes into him, straining not to move just yet.

Dean moans quietly, their lips still touching. Castiel licks against him, nips at his mouth, teases him with sweet soft kisses until Dean starts kissing back, lips hot and eager. Their kisses turn dirty, hungry, wet, and Castiel can’t wait any longer, can’t take Dean's heat and tightness; he moans filthily into Dean's open, waiting mouth.

“Move,” Dean nearly sobs. “Fuck, Cas. _Move_.”

Castiel snaps his hips, and it’s slow and it’s hard at the same time, stopping only when he’s fully seated inside Dean, panting into his mouth.

“Move,” Dean repeats, blunt fingernails scratching Castiel's back.

Castiel moves again, even slower, rolling his hips, taking Dean apart with the movement, delighted to hear his stuttered breath and the way his name dies on Dean’s tongue. He moves again and Dean arches off the mattress, legs coming up to wrap themselves around Castiel’s hips. He moves again, and again, and again, and Dean sobs, unable to kiss back as Castiel bites against his beautiful lips and pushes into him, slow and tender.

“ _Dean_ ,” he pants. He can’t breathe, too busy lavishing Dean’s body with kisses, he can't think, enveloped in Dean's heat. He moves his hips again and again, hides his face in Dean’s neck, and listens to Dean's soft moans.

When Dean comes, untouched, it's with Castiel’s name on his lips. It makes something sting in Castiel’s eyes and he moves to kiss him on the lips again, still moving inside him and guiding him through his orgasm. Dean’s body goes soft underneath his hands soon enough, and Castiel only needs a few more thrusts and then he's coming, too, unable to make a sound, lips open in silent pleasure.

“Cas,” Dean pants and tugs him down onto his chest. They roll over, Castiel slipping out of Dean with a wince, barely remembering to get rid of the used condom and tossing it behind his back and onto the floor. 

They end up on their sides, face to face. Dean closes his eyes and leans in, kissing him slowly. Castiel sighs and kisses back, eyes slipping shut as well, limbs heavy and thoughts sluggish. 

When Dean pulls back, Castiel wants to move and clear the mess on Dean’s stomach, but Dean just looks at him, smiles, and leans in to kiss him again. It’s soft and warm, and Castiel feels himself melt under Dean’s touch.

They keep kissing for a long time, Dean’s gentle hands on Castiel’s face, his thumbs tracing lines on Castiel’s cheeks, their legs entangled, breaths deep and hot, eyes closed. Dean isn't saying anything, but Castiel hears words with his every touch.

 _I want more_ , say his hands.

 _I'm happy_ , murmur his fingertips.

 _I'm glad you're here_ , confess his lips.

 _Stay_ , whispers the beat of his heart beneath Castiel’s hand.

Castiel stays.


	17. Chapter 17

**EPILOGUE**

_5 March 2009_

Heaving himself up on one elbow, Dean looks down at Cas, still asleep next to him, half of his face buried in the pillow and his longish hair falling onto his forehead and getting into his eyes. Cas’ lips are parted and he’s hugging a corner of the comforter. Dean smiles, leans down, and presses a kiss against Cas’ temple.

When he still doesn’t wake, Dean gets out of the bed, the floor in the room cold against his bare feet. He shuffles into his slippers and covers his shoulders with the grey robe that’s hanging over the desk chair.

It’s still weird to think he actually _has_ slippers and a robe in his room now, but to be honest, the mere fact he’s even really using it now is even weirder. He doesn’t keep his clothes in his duffel bag anymore — he has a closet full of them. He’s hung posters on his wall, because he never got to do that when he was a kid. He keeps a stack of books on the shelf above his bed.

Sam has never been so happy, seeing him slowly move in, but Dean doesn’t complain because he’s quite happy himself.

He leaves the room, closing the door quietly so that he doesn’t wake Cas just yet. They still have at least two hours before Benny gets here, and then they’re off to Ohio to hunt a nasty ghost. Cas can sleep in for a little longer, especially after their antics from last night. 

Dean is actually pleased they hadn’t chosen to sleep in Cas’ room yesterday because it’s pretty close to Sam’s room and Sam would probably murder them if they woke him up with the headboard banging against the wall. And the headboard was banging against the wall, alright.

He’s still smirking to himself when he rounds the corner and catches sight of Eileen, in her pyjamas with her feet bare, sneaking out of his brother’s room. She doesn’t notice him at first, because she’s turned away, and Dean lets out a low chuckle.

Well, maybe Sam wouldn’t be _so_ mad at them, after all.

Eileen turns on her heel and freezes like a deer in the headlights.

“Good morning,” Dean says, clearly enunciating the words so that she doesn’t miss them. He’s tried learning some ASL but he still feels unsure using it.

Eileen flushes bright red. “Hi, Dean,” she says.

“Did you sleep well?” Dean teases. 

Eileen opens her mouth, closes it, then rushes past him without another word. Dean bursts out laughing but doesn’t follow her.

It’s been a week since they came back from Pontiac and Dean decided to actually stay for longer than just one night, but he must have been pretty distracted to not notice Sam and Eileen taking things to the next level. Remembering to tease Sam a bit more when he sees him, Dean walks the rest of the way to the kitchen with a wide smile.

“Yo, Dean!” Charlie says as soon as she sees him, nose buried in a large book and her tablet propped up on her half-drained cup of coffee. Ellen is there, too, sipping her own coffee and reading a newspaper, and she greets him with a small smile.

“Morning, everyone,” Dean says. Pamela and Gadreel are standing near the stove, talking and making pancakes, and Dean sticks his head in between them. “Oh. I want five of those.”

Pamela smacks him with her spatula. “Wait your turn, loverboy.”

Dean refuses to blush, but his ears feel a little hot. He knows everyone in the bunker is aware of Dean and Cas’ relationship now, but it still catches him off guard sometimes.

He turns to Gadreel with an eyeroll, but only catches his back as the man quietly retreats from the kitchen. Dean watches him go with a sad smile on his lips. It’ll probably take some time before Gadreel feels good around Dean and Sam again, even though they made sure to talk with him and convince him there were no hard feelings between them. Gadreel didn’t do anything wrong, not inherently, but his family still took advantage of his naïveté.

“Let him go,” Ellen says. Dean looks down and meets her eyes, then nods. The rest of the bunker knows what happened in Pontiac, more or less, and Dean thinks it’s only fair — there should be no secrets between them, especially if they’re supposed to work together. Plus, Dean trusts Sam is able to keep everyone in line when it comes to the way they treat the Milton family.

Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and plops down in the chair beside Charlie. “Working so early?” he asks, pointing to the book.

“What?” Charlie asks, distracted. She bookmarks the book with her finger and holds it up to show it to Dean. “Nah. Just reading for fun!”

Dean looks at the huge tome, rolls his eyes, and laughs when Charlie beams at him. He wants to call her a nerd, but then he remembers that just two days before, she caught him completely immersed in the book he got from Cas at Christmas and he closes his mouth before any words can spill out. Maybe it’s better to stay silent.

A moment later, Pamela slides a plate full of pancakes towards him and he spends the next few minutes shoveling breakfast into his mouth and chatting casually while the others drink their coffee and watch him with mild disgust. He’s washing down a huge bite with his own portion of caffeine when Cas shuffles into the kitchen.

Dean grins, noticing the bleary look in his half-open eyes and the mess of his hair.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Ellen says with a grin and stands up to pour another cup of coffee. 

Cas grumbles something and makes to sit down in a chair on the other side of Charlie, but she springs up and grabs her tablet, her book still in her hands. 

“Take my place,” she says, beaming. “I’m gonna go spend the entire day on the couch reading this thing.”

Castiel mumbles his thanks and plops down next to Dean. Charlie ruffles his hair, making it even more dishevelled, and then trots out of the kitchen.

Dean’s neck is tingling from where he can feel Ellen’s and Pamela’s eyes on him, but he leans in anyway, hand brushing Cas’ cheek and angling his head towards him.

“Hey,” he whispers and plants a soft kiss on Cas’ lips.

Cas hums and kisses him back sleepily.

They break apart quickly after that because their family can be accepting, but there are still lines and Dean doesn’t feel like crossing them just yet.

“Pancakes?” Pamela asks from behind them. There’s laughter in her voice.

Cas hums again, this time more disgruntled.

Dean turns in his seat and winks at Pam. “Coffee first, I think.”

“Here you go, sweetie,” Ellen says, appearing on their other side. She slides a mug full of black liquid towards Cas, who sends her an adoring look and wraps both his hands around it.

Dean’s heart squeezes happily at the sight. He’d been worried when Sam had announced they had to tell the people in the bunker everything about Cas and his family, Cas even more so, but it turned out they couldn’t have been more wrong. No one condemned him, just as they didn’t condemn Gadreel or Hannah, and Castiel looked completely swept off his feet at everyone’s reaction. Charlie was absolutely the best, showing so much interest in Cas’ magical abilities that for a second, Dean was actually worried it would upset Cas. Ellen pulled him into a bone-crushing hug and repeated their old friend Bobby’s words about blood and family. Cas seemed overwhelmed, so Dean dragged him into his bedroom soon after the rest dispersed and took his time to make sure Cas felt loved again.

Right now, Pamela and Ellen smirk at them and leave the kitchen because apparently Dean staring longingly at Cas’ profile is not really sneaky. Or maybe they just know they won’t see each other for the next few days and want to give them more time alone.

“So, any plans for today?” Dean asks. He moves his chair closer, so that he can lean his thigh against Cas’ thigh. 

Cas pouts and drinks more coffee. “I think Sam has a task for me in the library.”

“Well, that’s good,” Dean says. He looks down at the remaining pancake on his plate and moves it towards Cas invitingly. “We’ve been pretty lazy the last few days.”

“I’d rather be lazy a bit longer,” Cas grumbles and pokes at the pancake with a fork.

“Yeah, well, duh,” Dean murmurs. He leans in again and kisses Cas’ ear, just because he can. “But we’ve both got work to do.”

Cas presses his face into the crook between Dean’s shoulder and neck and groans unhappily. Dean can’t stop the grin that spreads on his face while he lets his fingers tangle in Cas’ wild hair and hug him closer.

That’s how Sam finds them. He catches Dean’s smile, sends him a warm look, but then rolls his eyes and jokes, “Get a room, why don’t you.”

Dean chuckles devilishly. That’s exactly what he’s been waiting for.

“What,” he says, “like you and Eileen did?”

Sam’s eyes bulge out and his face goes red. “W-what?” he stutters.

Dean laughs out loud and dips his head to brush his lips against Cas’ neck. Cas huffs a laugh against his shoulder, too.

“Shut up,” Sam mutters and busies himself with making more coffee.

“I guess you’ve done your morning workout, then,” Dean continues jokingly. “And you didn’t even have to leave your bed!”

“You’re one to talk,” Sam grunts at him, then groans and bangs his head against the cabinet. “I did _not_ want to say that.”

Cas lifts his head to look at Sam with an innocent smile. “You have to understand, Sam — Dean is leaving today. I really needed to make sure he wanted to come back to me.”

Dean is well aware his smile is soppy, but he doesn’t care. “That’s right, you tell him, babe,” he murmurs with a chuckle. Cas sends him a curious look, clearly focusing on the b-word, so Dean ducks his head and kisses him again. So far, he’s only used endearments in bed and apparently they both still need practice to use them more often.

Well, Dean gathers as Cas kisses him back, sloppy and enthusiastic, they have all the time in the world for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Meet me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/teacass) or [tumblr](http://teacass.tumblr.com), or check out the storyboard (full of nerdy Sam fanart, just sayin') [here](https://pl.pinterest.com/fuszigi/fic-longing-for-home/) on pinterest!


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